


homecoming (this is your love song)

by sunwalker (softlees)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Mutual Pining, all of seventeen will end up in here eventually, also ridiculous amounts of seok narrative n introspection, can u guess which one is which, lots and lots of tender loving, seokhaoism is the best like. ever, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlees/pseuds/sunwalker
Summary: Nothing ever should grow where the sun hardly dares shine.But the truth is as clear as day. There it is. Stamped in the look on the king’s face, mirrored in that of his crown prince’s, loud in the wake of their silent gestures, carefully tucked into the gentle caresses that they only ever share with one another, echoing in the corridors of the palace and down the eternity of time.Deep down beneath the earth, is love.(Seokmin willingly eats the seeds in this one, much to Minghao's horror.)
Relationships: Lee Seokmin | DK/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 34
Kudos: 163
Collections: Enduring Dawn Round 1





	homecoming (this is your love song)

**Author's Note:**

> this prompt screamed to me the moment i read it and i immediately snatched it up i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it:  
> “ Person A as Hades and Seokmin as Persephone, taking inspiration from the idea that Persephone ate the pomegranate seeds by choice.”
> 
> it's 1am and i am sitting here literally on the day that this is to be revealed and i've just finished (which is terrible) this monster of a fic.
> 
> that reminds me: thank you so much to the mods of this lovely fic fest for our lovely sunshine boy, for being so understanding and for organizing this amazing event. thank you so much to gyuhao's princess for being my cheerleader (trying to be anon here, hope that works) and helping me give this one last push. i love you all dearly.
> 
> although i haven’t written in 2 years (which is insane to me), seokmin always is a delight and so, oh so familiar to write. thank you for giving this piece a chance. please enjoy.

Deep down, far beneath the surface of the earth, in a place where the souls of the dead come to be judged, lies a king and his crown prince.

The crown prince shimmers with vibrance. He is a pretty thing, always smiling. Sometimes the walls of their shared home reverberate with his voice, honeyed and soothing. He is not always here, however, and when he leaves, the little light that exists in the depths of the caverns of hell seems to sputter.

The king is brooding. He is handsome, but only in the way that sharp objects look right before they cut hands. When his prince leaves, the king of the Underworld spends his days restless, wandering the halls, counting down the days until his beloved joins him in the dark. One might even deign to call it something akin to sulking.

No one believes it — no one _can_ , because this is not how the story is supposed to go. The ruler of the Underworld should have dragged his beloved kicking and screaming, taking and ravaging as he pleased. There are no niceties when it comes to gods. Denial is a foreign feeling. Everything is theirs to take. Especially if one is a king. 

There’s something different about this one, though, they say. Instead of seizing, he beckoned. Even more surprising – his prince followed. They said that the golden boy accepted his crown with a smile (the crown seemed to be meant for him, a delicate thing made of hallowed bone), that a soft kiss was bestowed upon his brow as he followed his beloved down below.

Nothing ever should grow where the sun hardly dares shine.

But the truth is as clear as day. There it is. Stamped in the look on the king’s face, mirrored in that of his crown prince’s, loud in the wake of their silent gestures, carefully tucked into the gentle caresses that they only ever share with one another, echoing in the corridors of the palace and down the eternity of time.

Deep down beneath the earth, is love.

____

Seokmin is a god. There is no denying that.

He is a pretty thing, with glowing skin, and a honeyed complexion. Handsome. Always shining, always laughing. Golden. The prince of spring, beautiful as the flowers that bloom when he walks the land.

He is never wild. He does as he is told, smiling prettily as he sits daintily next to his father, Joshua, on the dais. By proxy, he occasionally gets mortals that thank him for the spring alongside the harvest. They don’t always realize that he is also responsible for the crop that populates the land, but Seokmin hates demanding devotion the way that the gods tend to do, lording their divinity over the mortals’ heads. Paradoxically enough, it’s not in his nature to take. And so Seokmin continues as he is, and gives what he can, only receiving what is offered. He is good, and nothing else.

He spends several centuries like that, the years insignificant against the scope of his long, neverending life. They’re nothing more than the blink of an eye to him. Mortals come and go, their lives expanding and collapsing by the time he remembers to check back in on them, though once in a while, Seokmin will find a favorite to dote on. He sees entire empires rise and fall by the time he’s five centuries years old. Time is funny like that.

He’s never quite in the spotlight, but not quite hidden by the shadows either. Because he is so effervescent, it is hard to forget his presence when caught in it, but because his domain is so heavily intertwined with his father’s, sometimes it feels he only exists as a regurgitation, an afterthought. Nevertheless, he puts his head down, tends to his roles like the dutiful son he is, and carves out his existence. Smiles when they ask him to. Brings fresh leaves every new season. Blesses fertility for all the lands. Keeps the youth youthful, the greens green, and the people happy. 

(Yearning, always yearning. Wondering if there’s anything more to life than just this. But he does as he’s told because it is all he knows and everyone tells him how lovely he is and Seokmin is afraid that if he stops as he’s done all these millennia the praises will start to run dry – that he will be easily forgotten, nothing more than a whisper on the wind. Minor gods are hardly ever afforded the same luxury that Olympians do.)

❀ ❀ ❀

Eventually, Seokmin gets relatively popular— or as popular as a minor god _can_ be. He even has a cult devoted to him and his niceties, offerings and parties thrown left and right in his honor. Apparently, kindness is a gift that mortal and divine alike hardly ever offer.

Seokmin tries to attend all the ones that he can, and if he can’t make it, he leaves a little bouquet of sunflowers by the door. It feels right, he says adamantly when his uncles and aunts laugh at him, blushing a little. Chan, the god of tricksters and travelers, teases him endlessly for it. Moral compasses are rare on gods. They’re such monstrous creatures that it is hard to imagine them capable of human acts, but it is refreshing to see Seokmin try.

“All the songs are about you,” Chan complains. He’s only half-joking. “If I have to hear one more ballad about the ‘prince of spring’s’ warm hearted gaze, I’ll barf. Warm-hearted gaze? How can a gaze be warm-hearted? What does that even _mean_?”

Seokmin just laughs and continues to radiate his warm glow, secretly pleased. 

It doesn’t take the king of the gods long to notice. (And for the dread to begin.)

Seokmin doesn’t have any quarrel with Seungcheol, himself – from the tedious family dinners that Seokmin attends, Seungcheol has been nothing but kind to him, with gummy smiles and rough calloused hands dancing around his shoulders. What Seokmin loathes, however, is the reputation that precedes Seungcheol. The king of the gods is infamous for his trysts and his long line of lovers. Whether he tumbles into bed with them because he is _the king of the gods_ , or simply because of his admittedly magnetic charisma, isn’t any of Seokmin’s business. Seokmin just doesn’t have any intention of (nor the desire to be) joining the list anytime soon.

Joshua does not make it any better either, tittering at the prospect of Seungcheol approaching one of his sons. Seokmin barely suppresses an eye roll as Joshua goes on one of his tangents, hands fluttering and nearly sprouting another field of wheat in the throne room out of excitement.

“How exciting!” Joshua scans the invitation for the hundredth time, eyes gleaming with mirth as he pulls away to look at Seokmin, who once again has to feign excitement. He knows that he doesn’t have to do much, but something about the effort twists at his insides anyway.

“I have such good children,” Joshua coos, looking all too smug, the apples of his cheeks curving. “You’re welcome. You and your siblings all got that from me, you know. Pretty boys and girls, the lot of you – from what the naiads tell me, you’re the talk of Olympus, the next ripe fruit to harvest.”

Seokmin snorts. “You make me sound like I’m some _thing_ to be won.”

“Is that so bad? Let the pigs fight over you,” Joshua says, wrinkling his nose. “At least we’ll get to benefit from it in the end. Gods _do_ do some crazy things for love.” He turns his attention back to the scroll in his hand, the invitation glimmering in his hand, almost mocking Seokmin at this point.

“For lust,” Seokmin corrects, voice hardening. “Seungcheol just thinks I’m pretty to look at, nothing more.”

“Potato, _potahto_.” Joshua waves a hand. “You will find a mortal who will worship you and give you what your divine partner doesn't. That will last you a couple hundred years until the next one comes back around. But being the trophy husband in the meantime doesn’t sound all that bad, right?”

Seokmin frowns. It _does_ sound bad. It certainly has never been a life that Seokmin has imagined for himself. Maybe he’s spent too long with Jeonghan, who does nothing but tell him about the magnificent violent passionate love stories that he creates for the mortals beneath them. Maybe, even after so many years, Seokmin is still incredibly, painfully naïve to want something like that for himself despite all the forces in the universe that say otherwise — the gods may be the one who get to craft the happy endings, but they’re never the ones that get to experience that for themselves. 

But Seokmin never has the spine to say anything about anything, the instinct to hold his tongue built into him ever since the very first days of his existence. The suffocating need to do good, to _be good_ and play his part overrides all other efforts at self-preservation. Instead, he lets his silence do the talking. It fills up the caverns of his bedchambers with its stickiness, palpable in its anger.

Joshua just hums, immune. “Are you going to go to the banquet?”

“Do I have a choice?” Seokmin says wryly after a while. “It _is_ being held in my honor.”

“I figured I’d ask out of courtesy.” Joshua laughs, all teeth. “You’re right. Seungcheol isn’t someone who asks. He’s not exactly someone who you can say no to either.”

Seokmin huffs. “I know that.”

Joshua smiles, not unkindly, and conjures up a gladiolus to tuck behind into Seokmin’s ear. He brushes a kiss across Seokmin’s brow, smoothing out the wrinkle in them before leaving the scroll next to Seokmin on the bed, a gentle insistence. This is all Joshua can do for Seokmin at the moment, this simple act of devotion the closest thing to love a god can express for their child. Even a divine one. Anything else would suggest vulnerability. 

Seokmin does not have a choice in this matter – he would be a fool to deny the king of the gods – and he and Joshua both know it. Something about that deeply offends him, sits angry in the pit of his stomach. Resentful.

Seokmin closes his eyes. He imagines the fates cackling in their lair, the sharp _schwick!_ of needles being unsheathed in giddy preparation. Condemning him to nothing more than another score on the long, long wall that already has plenty of marks on it already. 

(Seokmin would hate to be forgotten, but he thinks that this is just as bad. To be lost in the haze of divinities, to be known as nothing more than a “beauty”, another “lover”, someone whose features begin to bleed into the others if you stare long and hard enough. Not enough to be distinct, just enough to be in the periphery of memory. Another half-existence.)

“It is the greatest honor to be courted by Seungcheol, Seokmin.” Joshua reminds him gently as he exits Seokmin’s bedchambers, the mahogany oak door creaking behind him as Seokmin watches his father go, fingernails digging painfully into the flesh of his thighs. 

It is an honor that Seokmin does not dream of, empty and unpromising and cold. There is no love to be found in the way that Seungcheol aims to court him, and something inside Seokmin withers away at that. He thinks that this might be his breaking point. He feels run ragged, bound by expectations and formalities that have always felt too constricting, too tight on him, like clothes that have never quite fit right. Seokmin finds that he has grown tired of contorting himself to fit them all. 

Joshua leaves behind the scent of wildflowers. Seokmin takes a moment to breathe in the familiar smell, feeling delirious with defiance. It is a hell of a time to start a revolution – after spending so many eons carefully building his reputation brick by brick – but Seokmin finds that he does not care. 

He figures that is always better late than never at all. 

A crow’s feather catches his eye, on the windowsill, gleaming black in the daylight. Seokmin is struck by the thought of a mysterious king deep beneath the earth. Powerful enough to keep Seungcheol at bay, powerful enough that he exists _beyond_ the rules, untouchable, unlike Seokmin, who has always been grounded, forced to comply. 

He begins to formulate a plan. It reeks of desperation and madness and is baked only halfway through. 

It is perfect. 

The needles that had been committed to sealing his fate just a couple moments prior begin to still, unsure, hovering over the patchwork. 

Funny. Seokmin smiles to himself at the irony. This time around, hell might be his only way to salvation.

❀ ❀ ❀

The party is overwhelming. It is a party on Mount Olympus, so it has to be, but still. Seokmin is only a minor god, so celebrations made in his honor are rather small, all about cramming as many people as possible into the room for a good time. Despite being an Olympian himself, Joshua is modest, choosing to invest their resources in the sprawling orchard that surrounds their home, which is no bigger than a manor. The columns are massive, twice the size of what he’s used to, and the ceiling seems to stretch far beyond into the sky, enormous and gaping. Festivities are in full swing, food magicked and swirling around all the guests, a crowd of beautiful divinities as raucous and mirthful as ever. 

The moment he arrives, a golden laurel is placed over his head by tittering nymphs and dryads, who take the time to giggle and lay a hand on his shoulders flirtatiously as they fuss with his hair. They’re batted away by Seungcheol, who stumbles a little bit in his haste to welcome Seokmin. Seungcheol recovers almost instantaneously, sending out a gust of wind to catch his fall and set him upright, with a cheeky grin that complements the roguish nature of his outfit - an ensemble that leaves little to the imagination, with tight-clinging blue fabric that shimmers in the night and accentuates every muscle. 

The breeze ruffles his blue-gray hair, and Seokmin is struck by how _in his element_ Seungcheol looks, confidence oozing out of every gesture. Mount Olympus is Seungcheol’s hunting ground, and it is only now that Seokmin realizes that being the guest of honor, he is the prey tonight. The realization is dampening, the noose only grows tighter around his neck. 

“Seokmin!” Seungcheol grins, arms extended wide. His voice is booming and warm but it has the opposite effect on Seokmin. He shivers imperceptibly, but not before returning Seungcheol’s smile. “Glad you could make it!”

Seokmin fidgets with the hem of his orange tunic, nervously adjusting the wreath in his hair before returning with a gentle, “Thank you for throwing such a grand celebration in my honor, my king.” Everyone’s still caught in their own conversations, but something shifts in the air. Seokmin feels too exposed, a little bit raw and magnified underneath all their gazes.

“Call me Seungcheol,” Seungcheol says earnestly, twirling around so that his hand rests comfortably on Seokmin’s waist, guiding him towards the center of the party. “There’s no need for formalities between us, darling.” 

Joshua grins, mouthing, “Don’t worry about me,” and positively beams as Seokmin gets fed to the wolves. The last thing he sees is Jeonghan swooping down in a gauzy pink suit, the opening of the neckline borderline indecent as it swoops down in a deep V, drink in hand for his father. 

Seungcheol smells like oak, an earthy heady scent that makes Seokmin’s head spin a little. The timber of his voice is also low, and when Seungcheol leans in to murmur small comments about the gods and goddesses that pass them by, Seokmin can feel the curve of his lips around the shell of his ear. He feels terribly overwhelmed.

 _Don’t you faint on me now_ , Seokmin reminds himself, gritting his teeth. He might be the blushing virgin here, relatively newer blood amongst all these ancient entities, but he does not have to play his part to the fullest extent. 

He catches a flash of pitch black, in the corner, and his heart stops for a moment, stuttering. He steels his nerves.

“Seungcheol?” Seokmin croaks. 

“Hm?” Seungcheol says, nodding to the ever-bright Mingyu, who stops short in his argument with Seungkwan, the moon god. Polar opposites, the both of them, but they pay their dues and bow respectfully before resuming their bickering. Something about what mortals consider popular music nowadays, but Seokmin is too on edge to pay any attention. 

“Do you think I could grab a bit of fresh air for a moment?” Seokmin fans himself with his fingers. “An Olympus party is a little _much_ the first time around, even for me.”

“Oh!” Seungcheol steps back a bit, eyebrows creasing in concern as he scans Seokmin up and down. “Of course! Are you alright? Do you need me to come with you?”

“No, no,” Seokmin placates, placing a hand on Seungcheol’s arm in what he hopes is a calming manner. “I’ll be alright, Seungcheol. Why don’t you go entertain your guests? I’m sure they’ve been waiting all this while to meet you. I’ll go find you after.”

“Are you sure?” Seungcheol is dubious, but his gaze lights up when he looks to where Seokmin is pointing. Soonyoung has arrived, which means the _real_ partying can begin. He starts to walk away before Seokmin says anything else, then catches himself before sheepishly turning back to Seokmin for affirmation.

“Go!” Seokmin shoos him off. “I’ll join you later, I promise.” 

Seungcheol grins, and then wades off into the crowd with a hearty gale of laughter. Seokmin takes a deep breath, watching Seungcheol’s figure grow smaller and smaller in the distance, until he gets swallowed up by the other celestial bodies clamoring for a good time. He then turns around and promptly makes his way in the opposite direction. 

Minghao cuts a gorgeous figure against the white marble of Mount Olympus, tall and trim in a dark suit that flatters the sharp angles of his waistline, swathed by a grey fur coat. The outfit itself is quite simple, and the closer he gets the more he realizes that it isn’t so much the suit that makes the look, but rather the man himself — there are small gold accents that flash in the light, and a hard, glittering opal necklace that accentuates the deep cut of his neckline, pale against the rest of his clothes.

He is leaning against one of the columns, nursing a glass of red wine, no doubt from Soonyoung’s finest collection, swirling the glass slowly while he ruminates, staring out into the sky. 

A romantic. There are not too many of those amongst the gods anymore.

He panics, just for a bit, as he grasps the reality of the situation, what he is about to do. But his feet are already propelling him forward and there is a voice inside his head that tells him to press onwards and if he stopped now he reckons he’d gather even _more_ attention and he’d get eaten alive right there on that floor. He’s speaking figuratively, of course, but there really is no telling with this crowd. 

He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. There really is no proper way to ask someone to marry you in order to save you from the advances of the king of the gods, either, Seokmin reasons, but, still. The mere thought of making such bold propositions makes Seokmin queasy. It’s such a far cry from his personality that each step he takes makes him more and more uncomfortable, skin crawling under his collar.

He finds himself in front of Minghao, who peers curiously over the top of his wine glass at him. The interest fades as quickly as it appears, and Seokmin loses the other god’s attention faster than he would like to admit. They stand in silence for a little longer; Seokmin not quite knowing what to do with his hands, so he finds them shoved into the pockets of his beige trousers.

His tongue feels dry. “Your majesty,” he manages to say, bowing deeply.

Minghao spares him a wry grin, then. Delicate skulls adorn his knuckles, dark hair wild and untamed, running into his eyes. A god of death indeed. 

“You might not want to stand so close to me, son of Joshua. You look awfully pretty tonight, and I’d rather not be labeled the scoundrel who stole you away from the festivities.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Seokmin smiles, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Aw shucks, thank you, your majesty.”

Minghao snorts. “I was just paying compliments. I don’t come up here as often as my brother would like— but I promised him that I’d play nice today.”

“And don’t call me your majesty. Minghao is just fine. Seungcheol might delight in it, but I’m alright.” He points to the thin crown sitting crooked on his head. “This wretched thing carries enough weight for me.”

“It’s beautiful,” Seokmin offers, and he means it. It seems to be made of black ice, sharp and strong and delicate, glittering harshly under the moonlight; miniature skeletons decorate the base, all in various stages of death. A warning. 

Seokmin takes another moment to steel his nerves. He’s blushing terribly, can feel the heat on his cheeks. He plows on, grateful that the night gives him the cover to continue. “Mind if I keep you company tonight?” 

Minghao’s eyes flash, in warning, but straightens the front of his suit before carefully replying. “Be careful of what you are suggesting, son of Joshua. I’m hardly the sort of company anyone would want _anyone_ to keep. Especially one who has caught the attention of the king of Mount Olympus.”

Seokmin deflates a little. 

“So you’ve heard, then?” 

“You could do more to act pleased,” Minghao shrugs. “It isn’t every day that the king of the gods is throwing a party in your favor. It’s a great honor, you know, to be courted by my brother.” 

“You sound just like my father.”

Minghao smiles for real then, all teeth. Something about it makes Seokmin want to try and tease a laugh out of him. 

“I would hope so. I’m old enough to qualify.”

Seokmin wrinkles his nose. “Don’t say that. You’re better looking than he is.” 

Minghao stares, wary. Seokmin watches the way Minghao’s features ripple in surprise, flickering between unease and flattery. There is a slight smattering of blush across the tops of his cheeks, and he is once again struck by how lovely Minghao looks in the moonlight.

“What?” Seokmin is surprised at how easily the words slip out of his mouth, borderline flirty. “Has no one ever told you that one before?”

“Of course they have,” Minghao mutters, a little bit mulish. His hands work to straighten out his already-straight tie, fiddling with the various chains dangling on his wrist. There is not much more to fix, and his hands fall idle when he realizes it too. The wine continues to slosh around in the glass, delicately held in between his fingers. 

Seokmin's smile only widens as the silence between them grows. Minghao looks increasingly out of his element, trying to maintain his gruff exterior and failing miserably at it. 

“What?” Minghao grumbles. “It’s been a couple eons or so since I’ve heard it. Been a while since I’ve left the missus.”

Seokmin hums. “You have a missus?”

“No, that’s just what I call my dog—“ Minghao startles, like he’s caught himself saying something he shouldn’t have. He grabs the lapels of his fur shawl, pulling them tighter around his shoulders before deliberately glowering at Seokmin. 

“Why am I telling you this.” He says flatly, more to himself than anything else. 

“Well, why not?” Seokmin leans back onto the column, knocking his shoulder against Minghao’s in the process. He is still running electric, nerves making his palms sweat, but there is something grounding in their banter that helps him forget about the reason why they are all celebrating tonight. “Maybe I’m just curious.”

“Go be curious about Seungcheol.” Minghao waves his hand off towards that direction. “I’m sure he’d be _dying_ to tell you everything you ever wanted to know.”

“Yeah, but what’s the fun in that?” Seokmin complains. “Everybody knows everything about Seungcheol. I want to know about _you_.”

Minghao visibly stiffens. “Y-you just cannot go around saying these things, son of Joshua.”

“Just Seokmin.” 

“Seokmin.” Minghao corrects himself, voice laden with caution. Seokmin’s eyes widen at the way Minghao gracefully accepts the criticism. It is a new feeling, telling a god what to do. Even more strange - being listened to. 

“Do I make you nervous?” Seokmin says, taking a step forward into Minghao’s space, delighting in the way that Minghao takes a step back, blustering around a bit before straightening up to his full height. They both know what this looks like; two lovers sharing an intimate moment in the shadows, away from the intensity of a party gone on for too long.

Seokmin is just a little bit shorter, but not by much; Minghao and he are nearly at eye level, and somehow that feels intensely intimate, with the way that Minghao’s gaze is currently boring deeply into his own. He files this piece of information away for use at a later date. 

“I am warning you,” Minghao threatens, finger poking into Seokmin’s chest but it falls short. 

“Warning me about what? I’m not doing anything. I just want to know about you. Is that so bad? All I have to go on are just whispers and smoke.” They’re so close that he can see their breaths mingle in the air. 

“I’d rather learn about things right from the source. Is that alright with you?”

Minghao studies Seokmin, head tilted to the side in curiosity. The interest is back, renewed. Seokmin feels himself straightening up with the full force of Minghao’s attention, that damned desire to be liked rising up again, rearing its head. 

He fidgets under Mingaho’s scrutiny when the time wanes a little long. Staying still has never been one of his strong suits. “What?”

“You’re earnest.” Minghao admits. “It’s… nice.”

“So,” Seokmin says. Sly, a little bit daring. “What do you say? Wanna get out of here? Joshua hasn’t let me out of his sight in _ages_ , and I’m willing to bet that an old geezer like you might have some spots in mind for talking. Away from all this.”

There’s a delighted roar that comes from the crowd. Mingyu and Seungkwan have seemed to have gotten themselves into another drunken archery match, Wonwoo made to play the peacemaker once again. Chan dances around all of them, delighted at the prospect of another story to tell the mortals when he returns back to earth.

“I’ll let that comment about my age slide. This time.” Minghao frowns. “Your ‘beloved’ won’t mind?”

Seokmin steals a look at Seungcheol, who does not look as if he misses Seokmin’s presence, instead in the midst of spinning another one of his sordid tales with grandeur. His laughter, the usual _HA HA HA HA_ , fills the hall and saturates the air. 

A king like Seungcheol belongs in the spotlight, surrounded by adoration on all sides. He would not miss just one pair of eyes, even if they do belong to his guest of honor. He hadn’t thrown this banquet to woo Seokmin. Only to entertain. 

Of that Seokmin is sure. 

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Minghao grumbles, but the hand that he offers is gentle. “But would you like to get away from here?”

Seokmin studies Minghao’s hands. They’re strong, slim and supple, and when he slips his hand into Minghao’s, they’re surprisingly calloused, weathered rough by time. Their fingers fit together perfectly, interlocking and intertwining with ease, and although Minghao’s hold is chilling, Seokmin’s hand easily makes space for it, immediately warming them both over. It shocks Minghao as much as it does Seokmin, he knows, because the other god’s grip stiffens for a slight second before he forces himself to relax.

There have only been three times in Seokmin’s entire life so far when he has felt like he is where he is supposed to be. 

This is one of them.

“I’d be delighted to,” Seokmin whispers, and before he can say anything else, Minghao steals them away into the night. 

❀ ❀ ❀

“You know, I didn’t really have the Underworld in mind when I mentioned a place to talk.” Seokmin says absentmindedly, hands trailing the rough surface of the cavern walls as they walk. 

“You said you wanted a quiet place, unburdened.” Minghao says sharply. “No one is going to bother us down here in the Underworld.”

Seokmin has already gotten used to the way that the god of the dead talks, carefully making his way around the sharp edges, smoothing out the response that comes out. Each word is dealt precisely, succinctly, to the point. It is not meant to be mean, just factual. Seokmin likes that, likes not having to carefully decode whatever comes out of Minghao’s mouth. 

“I _did_ say that.”

“I can take you back if you’d like.” 

“No, no.” Seokmin wonders if the response is too quick. He is glad that it is rather dim down here, so that Minghao cannot see him wince. “It’s fine. I like it here.” 

“Don’t complain then.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Sure you weren’t.”

Minghao had traded his fur coat in for the night, unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolling them up to reveal several tattoos curling from the hems, dark vicious designs set with jet black ink, save for some glimpses that Seokmin gets of bright red accents here and there. Seokmin has half a mind to ask him about them, but he figures that the topic eventually will come around to it, one way or another. His hands itch to trace them, but that is also another demon to fight for another day.

“We’re here.” Minghao says quietly from his left, and then snaps his fingers. 

Light glows, illuminating the space in front of them. The grass is a little sickly, but stubbornly growing nonetheless, sprouting in odd patches of their own. It is not too large of a space, but Minghao had cleared a tiny walkway through the entire thing, setting up tiny fences and enclosures that delineate where one type of crop ends another begins. At the end, on top of a hill, is a majestic pomegranate tree, green and magnificent, branches heavy with ripe fruit; bunches and bunches of leaves sprawl endlessly across the space, growing upwards and reaching towards the top of the cavern. Seokmin can feel all the flora calling to him, itching to feed on his magic. It is the tree in particular that piques his interest, tugging at his gut the hardest.

“You have a _garden_?” Seokmin asks incredulously, eyes wide open. 

Minghao’s hand immediately goes to the back of his neck, ears reddening. “I feel like that’s just _Palace Keeping 101_. You have a castle, there should be gardens on the grounds somewhere to go along with it. And besides, it’s not so much a garden as it is a lone tree and several glorified shrubs.”

“She’s beautiful,” Seokmin says with as much seriousness as he can offer, stepping forward towards the lonely tree.

“It’s hard to keep things growing down here.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Seokmin’s grin only grows wider on his face, teasing. 

“I know. I just - felt like I had to explain it to you, with you being the god of spring and vegetation and all.” Minghao sounds defensive. “You must see prettier gardens up there all the time.”

“What,” Seokmin laughs. “Were you afraid that I’d turn out to be some kind of garden snob?”

“Absolutely terrified.” Minghao confirms, lips flattening into a straight line before twitching upwards into a smile. Seokmin’s laugh is bright. It bounces around the walls for a little bit before settling down.

“Can I touch them?” 

Minghao pauses for a second, as if having an internal debate, but then brusquely nods and gestures Seokmin to go ahead. He takes the time to walk the length of the garden, taking great care not to trample on any growing buds. Seokmin lends his magic to the grass, and they sigh in relief at the dissipating tension. Minghao is right, it _is_ hard to keep things growing down here, with no natural sunlight and clear running water. The soil itself is cakey, there cannot be much nutrients there to be extracted for survival. 

The plants that grow down here are a testament to their desire to live. Each and every one of them are fighters, doing what they can to eke out their living, fighting for every day to rise out from under the rubble and the ruin. Seokmin understands. He sends a little more enchantment their way. It is the least that he can do, from one soul to another.

“It’s incredible that you’ve even grown anything here.” He gets up from where he’s squatted over two spirea bushes. “The soil is incredibly dry, and I can’t imagine how you get fresh water down here.”

Minghao shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I know a naiad. They owe me something, so they make the trip every once in a while to purify the springs that I use for drinking water. It wasn’t hard to engineer something that also irrigated the gardens while I was at it.” 

Seokmin nudges Minghao with an elbow. “You know what they say about gardens. They’re great reflections of their owners.”

“I’ve literally _never_ heard that before. And I have been around for far longer than you have.” Minghao laughs. It sounds like the tinkling of bells, only scratchy, as if it hasn’t been used in a while. Seokmin immediately decides it is something he wants to hear more of.

“Okay, okay,” Seokmin concedes, hands up in surrender. “So maybe I’m the only one who says this. But it’s still very much a thing. Or, at least, it should be.”

They’ve made their way to the top of the hill now, and Seokmin runs his fingers along the gnarled roots and bark of the pomegranate tree, grinning at the way the tree warms up to him, leaves shimmering and rustling with glee. 

“She likes me— ” He turns back to Minghao with a wide grin on his face, the bright smile slipping slightly when he realizes that the god of the Underworld is already looking at him intensely, with something akin to fondness on his face.

(That is just what Seokmin believes, but the truth is? He does not know. The only thing he has to go on by are the expressions that Jeonghan makes when he retells his mortal love stories. Seokmin treasures the sight anyways.)

Minghao is the first one to break eye contact. “Of course she does,” he says, gruff. “You’re the god of spring. And very good at it too. I’m also pretty sure she’s just gotten tired of seeing my face all the time; you’re the first visitor she’s had in while.”

“Before you said I was pretty,” Seokmin reminds him innocently, choosing to save all of Minghao’s replies for later to unpack. “Are you sure it’s not that?”

“That too, I guess,” Minghao pinks. 

Seokmin turns around so that the other god does not see the flush look on his face, cheeks mirroring the faint blush dusted on Minghao’s own. He stops when his foot hits something with a soft _thump_. A fallen pomegranate, just ripe and freshly fallen, lays on the floor; its insides are a brilliant red, the seeds juicy and plump, contrary to the faded rosy color of the hard shell. 

Seokmin moves to pick it up, cradling it gently, and thanks the lone tree for its hard work. She preens, leaves rustling in acknowledgement.

“These look so _good_ ,” Seokmin says, awed. “Even the ones on Earth don’t ever look this tempting. Say, have you ever had—”

“ _Don’t_.” Minghao’s voice is so vitriolic, Seokmin drops the pomegranate. The hostility that mingles with fear radiates off of Minghao’s body in a way that is so intense that Seokmin has to consciously fight the urge to cower. He had nearly forgotten that he was in the presence of one of the Big Three, a god whose power was nearly unparalleled to anyone else’s. 

“Above all else,” Minghao says quietly, “If there is one thing that you should know about me is that I will never, _ever_ let anyone eat the fruit here. I will not condemn you to this fate.”

“I don’t—”

“This is not the kind of thing you tumble into, Seokmin. If you eat anything from the Underworld, even the tiniest bit, then you’re stuck here down here with me. Forever.” His voice is flinty. It makes Seokmin flinch. “And that is something you should be able to walk into with both eyes wide and knowing.”

Minghao looks away, but his shoulders are shaking, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeves. “We’d better go. Someone’s bound to have noticed your disappearance by now, and I would rather not be the scapegoat for their anger.” He does not wait for Seokmin to respond before turning around, going back the way that they came.

Seokmin stares at the forbidden fruit laying smashed on the floor. 

“Seokmin. Did you hear me?” Minghao’s voice leaves no room for argument. 

Something compels him to reach down and grab six seeds. 

“I’m coming!” Seokmin yells, carefully tucking them into the front pocket of his tunic before hurrying after Minghao’s retreating form.

❀ ❀ ❀

When they return to Minghao’s throne room, they are met with an entourage of angry guests.

Minghao, who had been leading the way, immediately pulls his hand from Seokmin’s grasp and stops, facing them. He clasps his hands behind his back and assumes the mask that he was wearing just earlier that night, amongst the columns when he and Seokmin first met. Feigned boredom, head tilted high, almost borderline dismissive. 

Seokmin marvels at how easily he can flip that switch; on the other hand, Seokmin is an open book, face easy and willing to give up any information at the barest whisper. 

“Seungcheol,” Minghao gives a curt nod, curling his lips into a smile, all teeth. “Glad to see you here. It’s been, how long ago, now, since you’ve banished me down here? I do believe it is your first time back since then. I think that calls for a _celebration_ , don’t you think?”

“Minghao,” Seungcheol replies, low and terse. Thunder rumbles, shaking the caverns. It should not be possible to hear it from here, but Seokmin supposes that they are dealing with gods here. The laws of nature have never applied. “Give us back Seokmin, and we won’t hurt you.”

Black aura crackles from Minghao’s form, sharp and angry, causing unease amongst the crowd. The dark depths of Tartarus are not exactly welcoming, and they often do not make habit of visiting such a dreadful place. For the first time, they are reminded of the power that Minghao holds down here. It is easy to forget things when you do not see them. 

“I was planning on returning your precious prince back to you. We were just having a pleasant conversation in my garden.” He bows stiffly. “I didn’t realize how late the night had gotten.”

“Like he would want to stay down here in the dungeons with you,” Seungcheol snarls. Minghao’s wince is imperceptible, but Seokmin notices it all the same, and clenches his fist. His tongue flops uselessly in his mouth, once again reduced to silence in the presence of his elders. 

He hates himself endlessly for it. The seeds burn, heavy in Seokmin’s front pocket. 

“I did not say anything of that nature,” Minghao says neutrally. “Did I not say that I was just on my way to deliver him back to you?”

Seungcheol pauses, seemingly perplexed by the lack of arm-twisting he was obviously expecting to do. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Minghao rolls his eyes. “Oh. You really do have trouble with listening, don’t you, brother? You’ve gotten so used to taking things nowadays, it seems strange when things just come to you, doesn’t it?”

This causes Seungcheol offense, lightning sparking from the tips of his fingers, but he tamps it down in favor of beckoning Seokmin over from where he’d been huddled behind Minghao’s figure, flashing him a winning smile. Seokmin does not miss the way his eyes speak volumes of bloody murder at Minghao. 

“Thank you,” Seokmin whispers to Minghao as he makes his way towards the king of the gods. “I had a lovely time with you.” He pretends not to notice the way Minghao stands stiff, bristling at the kind words. 

Seokmin is too preoccupied with the knowledge of what’s in his hand, too heavy with a choice that no one in the room else knows that he is about to make. 

He stops right in front of Seungcheol, an arm’s length apart, narrowing his eyes. “Just for the record, Seungcheol, I am no fool. I know what you meant when you threw that banquet for me.”

He opens his palm to show one lone seed, stolen from Minghao’s garden, glinting in the light. 

The last line is meant for Minghao and Minghao only, but Seokmin figures that it is worth saying aloud too: “And I know the meaning behind this, too.”

Seungcheol startles then, reaching for Seokmin. 

“Seokmin, no—“

The first pomegranate seed, swallowed. Somewhere, a thread stutters. To eat the flesh of a fruit grown beneath the world is to commit one’s fate to living in it. As is the way of the gods — to consume is to lay claim. It is what Seokmin and his kind have been doing for years and years and years on end. Gods are no strangers to devouring. 

And so, it is in this fashion that Underworld snatches Seokmin, the prince of spring, from the heavens on Mount Olympus. Drags him deep down under and tells him that this, too, is home.

Trapped, some would say, but he knows better. Any fate is better than the one Seungcheol has planned for him. A life with Minghao seems infinitely better in comparison. 

The god of the Underworld looks faint, as does Seungcheol. 

Seokmin is not quite sure what he expects the seed to taste like, but he does not expect this: grit and devotion. Not exactly like the juices of a normal pomegranate — but, Seokmin thinks, just as sweet. 

“That…” Minghao swallows heavily. “You…”

“Yes,” Seokmin tips his chin up defiantly. Joshua looks at him with new eyes, expression unreadable. Seokmin fights the urge to turn around and vomit. “That I did.” 

Minghao’s gaze is stormy, but he tamps it down as he clasps his hands together, facing the horrified crowd. “I’m sorry Seungcheol, but, you know the rules.” 

Seungcheol growls, but does not make any move towards Minghao. “That I do.”

“Then I’ll have to ask you to take your leave,” Minghao says with a sweep of his hand. The grand gates to his throne room, heavy golden doors that touch the ceiling and are engraved with thousands and thousands of mortal names that litter the Fields of Asphodel, sweep open, grating with each inch. “This _is_ still my kingdom, you know. I will not tolerate such intrusions the next time you and your buffoons choose to venture down here without so much as a notice.”

“I’ll be back to collect him in a month’s time,” Seungcheol says with forced politeness, but everyone in the room knows that it is not so much a statement as it is a promise. Seokmin pales in the light of his victory, and wonders just what he’s gotten himself into. 

“And we shall be expecting you.” Minghao says, just before he closes the door on them with a resounding **_BANG!_ **, the note resolute and final. 

_____

“I don’t like any of this,” Minghao says gravely. The serious nature of his tone is juxtaposed against the giant furs piled high in his arms, nearly swallowing his figure whole. It muffles what he has to say. Seokmin just barely refrains from laughing at him, though he’s not quite sure if it is because he truly finds it funny or if the hysteria is finally setting in. 

Minghao dumps the furs unceremoniously onto the guest bed, located within the guest bedchambers present in some wing deep within the palace. Seokmin barely remembers the labyrinth they had to navigate to get here, the various twists and turns indistinguishable in his mind, still shocked hollow by what had just transpired. He distantly remembers Minghao telling him that this particular room, gorgeously set in brilliant hues of oranges, yellows and reds, is his — or at least, it will be that way for the duration of his stay.

For a god who does not have many visitors, Minghao is oddly very much prepared for them.

“You seem to be the type that doesn’t like much of anything,” Seokmin says conversationally, taking the moment to steal a glance at Minghao. He looks incredibly displeased at the attempt to make light of the situation on hand, and instead goes back to fussing with the decor of the room. 

“I like certain things. Australian wine. Fashion. Art. Photography.” Minghao irritably straightens a fur blanket, smoothing down the creases. A deep furrow in his brow remains when all the other wrinkles disappear. “It’s called _having_ _taste._ I cannot be at fault if you don’t have any.”

He straightens up, hands on his hips, lips set in a grim line as he steps back from the linens. His eyes meet Seokmin’s in a brief sidelong glance before they slide away. “Do not be distracting. We have a problem on our hands.”

Seokmin chooses not to comment on Minghao’s word choice of _we_ and instead takes the time to ruin Minghao’s handiwork by belly flopping down onto the blankets. It is pleasantly silky and soft, and he delights in the feel of it against his skin, burrowing deeper and deeper beneath the covers. This might actually be hell, but these blankets sure do a great job at hiding it. They feel heavenly. 

“But I haven’t done anything to be distracting.” He grins up at Minghao, hands on his chin, feet kicking up in the air behind him. “And I’m really not seeing a problem here. I thought we were having a moment in the garden. It was nice.”

Minghao does not look so pleased. “You—” Minghao grits his teeth. Lets out an exhale, runs his fingers through his hair out of frustration. Tries again. “Seokmin, you can’t be serious. What were you _thinking_ , pulling a stunt like that?”

“It was not a stunt,” Seokmin says stubbornly. “I thought it through. For the five seconds that the thought occurred to me anyways. It was very soundproof in my head.” 

Minghao plows on without hearing him. “Seungcheol is fairly understanding, but even this is too steep a situation to rescue you from. You just did all of that of your own free will. Even enchantments and blood magic are not enough to take that from you. And _that_ is what makes this a thousand times more insulting than if I had made you eat those damned pomegranate seeds and forced him to watch. This is not the sort of thing you forget, Seokmin. Not if you’re Seungcheol. _Especially_ if you’re Seungcheol.” He begins pacing frantically across the room, muttering to himself, “Slighted by a _minor_ god, no less.” 

He says the latter like a curse, spitting and snarling and wretched, as if the crux of who Seokmin is at his core is something repulsive, something to be ashamed of. Minghao does not mean anything by it, just speaking in straights again: not even gods are made equal. Seokmin flinches anyway, because he has always been afraid of what would remain if he ever gathered the courage to peel himself back. 

(Power is a disease, and all of them are acutely aware of it, of the way it digs deep into their flesh and carves out their bones, makes even the greatest divinities desperate to have it. This is the truth — the whole truth — laid bare and raw and out on a platter for consumption: he is just a minor god, nothing more, nothing less, scouring for crumbs. Everyone will remember Seungcheol. They’ll remember Joshua. Those on the earth will even remember Minghao, who rarely emerges from his cave beneath it. Just because they all have what Seokmin does not.)

Minghao pivots back on one heel, startling Seokmin from his inner thoughts. Minghao’s hands are always moving, never still in his agitation. 

“Do you even _understand_ the entirety of what you’ve done here?”

 _Yes._ Seokmin wants to say. Yes, he understands that it was a slap to the face. The gravest offense. It is not one that was written down, by any means, but fed to him the moment that he was old enough to know his place in the world. It is an ancient understanding, as old as Seokmin’s life is long — even amongst gods and kings there is a pecking order. No matter which way you spin the wheel, Minghao is dead last. Will always _be_ dead last. This choice that Seokmin has made, picking the king of the dead over that of the living, does not signify an end but rather the beginning of a very long battle. And he knows that in the end someone will have to pay for it. Gods may be many things, but they always are fair. An eye for an eye. Something terrible in return for Seungcheol’s wounded pride.

He sits up, carefully disentangling himself from the blankets. “I walked into this wide eyed and knowing, Minghao. I know.” He hopes that Minghao won’t see how badly Seokmin is shaking. Bravery has never been his strong suit. He folds and unfolds the blanket in his hands, over and over and over again.

A heartbeat of silence. “Then why—?”

“Because,” Seokmin says, lets the words he wants to say run out of his mouth _. Because you saw more of me during those few minutes in the garden than anyone ever has in my entire life._ Needless to say, they fail to make it out.

“Well, when you have your answer, let me know.” Minghao lets out a sigh. All the tension dissipates from his frame, shoulders drooping and slumping, body curling in on itself. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll leave you to rest. Good night, Seokmin.” 

Seokmin watches him go and tries not to feel very alone.

❀ ❀ ❀

He wakes up to a gentle, handsome face peering at him, a tiny beauty mark on his upper lip. 

“I’m Junhui.” The boy grins, cheek resting on his arms, resting on top of one another on the edge of the bed. “Minghao sent me to keep you company.”

“How long have you been here?” Seokmin rubs the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Not too long. A couple hours, give or take,” Junhui says cheerfully. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

“Nasty habit of mine,” Seokmin grimaces, smacking his lips together and wincing at the foul taste that greets him. “Is there anywhere I can wash up? My morning breath is awful.”

“Yeah, of course,” Junhui hums, gracefully moving out of the way as Seokmin throws back the covers and tumbles out of bed. “He had me go get you a new pair of slippers and clothes last night. Woke me up in the middle of the night all frantic and everything.”

Junhui frowns, but the expression vanishes as soon as it appears when his gaze alights on something behind something. “Ah, right! The clothes are right here on the nightstand, you can change when I show you the washroom. You should put on the shoes though, the floors get quite chilly.”

Seokmin turns his head to find the aforementioned garments. Surprisingly, none of them are in the Underworld’s traditional colors, no deep scarlets or midnight black. Instead, they’re in familiar hues of oranges, pine green, and earthy tones, the colors of his home. The shoes are simple brown moccasins, lined with soft fur. 

“He was very adamant about the ‘no dark colors’ thing,” Junhui comments somewhere from his right. Seokmin turns to look back at him, smiling, eyes laden with meaning. “I think he thought you’d feel less homesick if they weren’t. It is already a lot darker than you’re used to down here.”

It’s … nice. So incredibly nice, to be thought about like that. Seokmin smiles to himself as he gathers the clothes in his hands, chuckling to himself as he follows Junhui down the hall. 

The washroom is lovely. Not that Seokmin has any reason to expect otherwise, from what he’s seen of the palace insofar, the god of death has impeccable taste in decoration. He quickly washes up and throws on the clothes Minghao picked out for him, delighted in the way they fit him like a second skin, the orange complementing his deep tan beautifully. In a certain light, Seokmin glows. 

He stares hard at himself in the mirror, hands gripping both sides of the basin. 

Seokmin needs to make these thirty days count. He needs to convince Minghao that he is someone to fight for, somebody to stand up to the king of the gods for. His shoulders slump, daunted by the thought of such an arduous task. He barely even _knows_ Minghao, who might not be Seokmin’s biggest fan at the moment, given their current situation — Seokmin had practically twisted Minghao’s arm behind his back when he swallowed that seed in front of Seungcheol, condemning the both of them to the same fate, without Minghao’s say. Seokmin is not as socially adept as Jeonghan is at maneuvering first impressions, but even _he_ knows that the one he left on Minghao was not exactly… favorable by any means.

Seokmin groans, splashing water onto his face, cursing his recklessness, half-baked plans, and everything else that went into shaping the events of twenty four hours past. Maybe he should have just sat there and looked pretty, said yes when Seungcheol asked and done as he pleased. Let himself be displayed on the trophy shelf, reaped the benefits of a powerful lover before sinking back into anonymity. 

Repulsion rises in the back of Seokmin’s throat the moment he has that thought, horrified by the thought of such a fate. Once again, he finds himself back at square one: he must get to Minghao by the end of these thirty days. By any means possible. Even if it means donning a different disguise that he’s not all that used to wearing. This is the only solution that Seokmin can make peace with. 

Seokmin worries at his bottom lip, catching it between his teeth. The price he wants Minghao to pay is incredibly steep. The god of the Underworld might be a lot of things (mysterious, handsome, powerful), but Seokmin doubts that somewhere he’d find the word “selfless” in the midst of all those modifiers. Gods hardly ever are. They choose to leave such trivial things up to the humans, because those sorts of things seem to matter only in death, and well, that has never been an issue for beings who are in the business of avoiding it.

Thirty days. He only has that many before Seungcheol comes back for him, coming to claim Seokmin like an item left behind and forgotten instead of an actual sentient being with thoughts and feelings. And if he’s being honest, Seokmin is terrified of what that might mean for him at the end of all this. 

“Seokmin?” Junhui sounds worried. “Did you drown in there or something? The bathtub isn’t that big. At least, I don’t think so. It’s been a long time since we have had a guest in there.”

“I’m sorry!” Seokmin calls out. “Just got caught up in my thoughts. I’ll be out soon.” He hears an audible sigh of relief from the outside of the door. 

“Oh, thank the gods you’re alright!” Junhui’s relief is palpable as he leaps up from the chair he’d been sitting on as Seokmin exits the washroom, hands all over to make sure that he was an actual person with a physical body (and not an apparition as the other man had feared). 

“I’m alright, I swear,” Seokmin laughs, swatting away Junhui’s hands. 

“No, really,” Junhui huffs, crossing his arms. “Minghao probably would have killed me if you had died on my watch. This is quite literally the only job I have ever been given.”

Seokmin cocks his head in confusion. “But you’re already dead, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, but I wouldn’t put it past Minghao. He’s always been ridiculously good at finding a way.” Junhui nervously straightens the chair, taking the time to put a potted plant upright after it had been knocked over in the midst of all the chaos. He peers at Seokmin when his stomach lets out a timely growl. “Are you hungry? Let’s find you something to eat.”

Seokmin is content to let Junhui talk. He has a little bit of something to say about everything, from the weather (“You can expect the same thing every day, really. Anything close to a breeze is just the hot stale wind blown in from the pits of Tartarus.”) to the kinds of cutlery they have available(“Only silver, it’s the easiest to clean. Minghao gets grumpy if there’s the tiniest speck of dirt.” A fond eye roll. “Even if he’s the only one eating.”). 

Junhui is the closest thing to a companion that Mingaho has, Seokmin learns. He died unfairly young, a little bit brave and a lot bit stupid, as most heroes tend to be, protecting his village from a river god who sought to take one of their maidens. Minghao was struck by the way that he had been so determined to live, even in death, how shamelessly Junhui had demanded protection for all the girls in their village, especially for his sister. Minghao had argued for Junhui’s life. But even the god of death could not save him from it.

“So he brought me here instead. It might sound strange, but the Underworld has always been kind to me.” Junhui shrugs. “He still visits my village from time to time. Keeps them safe. My sister’s grandchildren are expecting grandchildren of their own now. That pesky river god doesn’t dare bother them anymore. That’s enough for me.”

“He sounds like a good guy,” Seokmin says honestly. 

Junhui laughs. “There are no good people, Seokmin. Just good deeds. Or bad ones. Minghao is full of those too. He just doesn’t try to hide it.”

  
  
  


The rest of the day passes like that, with Seokmin wandering the castle grounds and Junhui not too far behind, providing commentary when the occasion arises. 

(He uses the term “day” loosely because Junhui was right, it _is_ a lot darker than he is used to down here, and although Minghao has magicked the illusion of a sun shining high in the sky, it doesn’t carry the same warmth that the sun aboveground has. Instead, it feels a little empty and harsh.)

He finds himself by the garden once again, mesmerized by the lone pomegranate tree on that hill. He stands in front of it, notices the familiar tugging in his gut again. Out of all of the places in the palace he’s been so far today, this is the one that feels the most like home. 

“Where is Minghao?” Seokmin asks, frowning. “We haven’t seen him all day.”

“He must be busy with the new arrivals,” Junhui shrugs, walking up to stand side by side. “Just because your world paused the moment you ate that seed doesn’t mean his has to.”

Seokmin’s head jerks, cheeks flooding with shame. 

“Sorry,” Junhui offers after a little while, the air stale between them. “I’m a little overprotective when it comes to Minghao.”

“No,” Seokmin admits, tipping his face up towards the tree. “You’re right.” Shame rises up in him, the waves of emotion threatening to capsize Seokmin entirely. Minghao has been more kind to him than Seokmin had expected, going the extra mile to extend comforts and make the necessary accommodations, when it was Seokmin’s fault entirely. He was the one who dragged Minghao into this mess in the first place.

It is silent for a beat longer before Junhui grins, knocking into Seokmin’s shoulder. “Well, that’s good, at least.”

“Huh?” 

“You know when you’re in the wrong.” Junhui smirks, smile curving gleefully. “It’s going to come in real handy when you’re dealing with Minghao.”

“Is it really that bad?” Seokmin worries. 

Junhui shakes his head, but his grin only grows wider, more secretive. “You’ll see. Minghao just really, _really_ likes to be right all the time. He’s also awful at apologizing.” He makes a face. “Has the emotional complexity of a rock, sometimes.”

“Rocks can be complex,” Seokmin tries. He racks his brain very, very hard to come up with something, anything. “They have lots of layers to them, right, if they’re sedimentary…”

“Oh, Seokmin.” Junhui’s hand on his back is comforting. “You are very lucky you’re pretty.”

“I resent everything that you’re implying,” Seokmin says into his hands, sufficiently embarrassed, but by then he is too busy laughing alongside Junhui, his eyes curving into crescent moons. 

They end up staying there for a while longer, Seokmin’s head pillowed on Junhui’s lap, the both of them hidden from the sun by the leafy green foliage. He doesn’t want to return to the palace just yet, and he has become rather fond of the mangled garden Minghao has. Seokmin has always preferred plants to people, anyhow. 

“I’ll be honest,” Junhui says, jostling Seokmin’s head a little as he jiggles his leg. Up, down, up, down. Always in motion. “I was very prepared to hate you, for all that you’ve done to Minghao so far.” 

“Thanks?” Seokmin laughs out of nervousness. It is a knee-jerk reflex, a sound made to deflect.

“You’re very likeable,” Junhui nods, serious. “And you don’t smell like rotten fish.”

“I see.” Seokmin closes his eyes, interlacing his fingers over his stomach. “I think those are two very important things to notice about a person.” He likes Junhui a lot, finds his presence inexplicably comforting, despite all the jagged edges in execution. Seokmin thinks that it makes Junhui more lovely. A nod to his former self. How terribly human. 

“I think so, too,” Junhui says, and starts humming a song that is unfamiliar and comforting all at once. It sounds like an ocean breeze. 

It doesn’t take long for Seokmin to fall asleep to the sound of Junhui’s voice, soft and gentle. 

❀ ❀ ❀

His next actual encounter with Minghao comes two whole days later. 

Seokmin has resorted to gardening when he finds himself itching to do something with his hands, hating the feeling of being idle. There are only so many sweets that Seokmin can eat down in the galley, and even though Junhui is an impressive enabler, Seokmin figures it would do some good to direct that excess energy towards something more productive. Minghao isn’t around to give him the permission, but Junhui assures Seokmin that it’s fine, because “it’s not like anyone else is around to see them, anyways.” 

He is in the middle of tending to a particularly stubborn bunch of sage, sweat dripping down his face, when he hears footsteps approaching, crunching on the dry grass. 

“I see you’ve taken to the garden.” The voice is somehow sharp and soft all at once, outfitted with a dry tone. It’s not overtly sexual either, which means it’s _definitely_ not Junhui. 

(The latter often likes to sit under the shade of the pomegranate tree, making downright explicit comments on the impressive muscles that Seokmin seems to be very dedicated to building, taking great delight in how easily he can get Seokmin to squirm. Junhui cackles more than he laughs, and sometimes the sound carries over into Seokmin’s dreams, taunting him.)

Seokmin immediately panics — he can’t imagine how disheveled he looks, he’s been at this for about two hours now — and prays to the gods out there that there aren’t any dirt smudges on his cheeks, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes. He turns from his work to find Minghao standing there, smiling up at him. 

He’s dressed in another dark dress shirt that is equally gauzy as it is see-through, complete with a devastatingly deep neckline, artfully tucked into a pair of form-fitting brown slacks. The outfit is made complete by a large tan sunhat, the brim floppy and digging into Minghao’s eyes. To top it off, he’s got more rings than necessary lined up on his fingers. They glint underneath the rays of the sun, as Minghao wiggles them in greeting. 

Seokmin feels faint. Minghao seems to own a lot of revealing V-neck shirts. Realistically, Seokmin has only seen him twice, but two times in a row makes a coincidence, and if there’s a third he will have to have to lay down for a bit to digest that kind of information. Seokmin doesn’t blame Minghao — the look works incredibly well for him, whose frame is lithe and lean and sinewy — but it leaves him a little dizzy. Little is left to the imagination with clothes like that. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Seokmin straightens up and flushes, glad to use the heat as an excuse. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I couldn’t help myself. She’s a little stubborn, but I think with some hard work, she’s really on her way to looking like the ones I’ve grown on Mount Olympus.”

He panics. “Not that there’s anything wrong with her—” 

“No, no, you are the expert here, Seokmin. Feel free to do with it as you please.” Minghao pulls the brim of his hat lower, covering the beginnings of a smile. “I have utmost faith in your judgement.”

“Oh, I doubt that. My taste is questionable at best.” Seokmin snorts. “But, uh, I will be sure to do my best, Minghao.”

“Can I join you up there?” Minghao asks. “I finally managed to finish everything early today, and it’s still a couple hours before dinnertime. It’s a new record for me, if I’m being honest. It’d be nice to celebrate the victory with somebody.” 

“Sure!” Seokmin beams, despite his internal panic at the prospect of a very lovely Minghao in his proximity, when Seokmin is this sweaty, dripping with it. It’s not like he has dressed nicely either; Junhui suggested he cut the sleeves off of an old yellow shirt for the yard work, instead of soiling the expensive fabrics that Minghao has gotten for him. He might even be, (he feels queasy just thinking about it) horrifyingly enough — _smelly_. Seokmin tries to get a quick whiff of his armpits without Minghao noticing, but the other god quickly reduces the distance between them before he can successfully determine if there’s any odor. He jams his arms back to his sides and feverishly prays to any gods that are listening.

“Oh, I see you’ve ripped the sleeves off your shirt,” Minghao says, a little strangled, as he gets closer. “Did Junhui suggest that? It seems to be popular amongst the mortals, these days.” 

“He did, actually.” Seokmin self-consciously rubs at his biceps. “I would have hated to ruin the nice clothes you got for me. It’s actually really clever, and the material is airy enough that it helps cool me down when I sweat. Which is a lot, unfortunately.” 

“I see.” Minghao’s response is even, devoid of emotion. Seokmin hardly knows what to make of it, so he just turns back to surveying the sage bush, mortified. Maybe he does look awful.

Seokmin tries very hard to concentrate on what he was doing prior to Minghao’s interruption, but he finds his mind scrambled like radio static, his whole body buzzing with glee at the proximity. 

“Long day at work?” Seokmin tries, going for a neutral conversation starter.

“It’s been worse,” Minghao shrugs. “Any day I get out before the sun sets is a good one.”

“What do you have to do, usually?”

“I’m usually drowning in paperwork. People always want my opinion on what to do, but that’s also because I get incredibly irritated if things aren’t done my way. They’ve learned to consult me for every little thing, even if I chew off their heads for it.” Minghao makes a wry face. “I do it to myself, though. I’m kind of a perfectionist. I expect the best, always.” 

“I get that,” Seokmin says honestly, nervously wetting his lips. “I’m that way with my plants, too. I can’t stop until it looks right to me, even if it looks okay to anyone else.” He chuckles at the memory. “I’ve definitely fallen asleep in the dirt plenty of times trying to get the right blooms.”

“Exactly.” Minghao says I’m glad _someone_ gets it. Junhui just calls me neurotic.” 

Seokmin laughs. “I prefer the term ‘detail-oriented’.

“That too.” Minghao lets out another long-suffering sigh, gracefully making his way to the floor, sitting so that his long legs are spread out in front, leaning back on his palms. “I’m going to sit down, if you don’t mind. I’m absolutely knackered.”

“You’re going to get dirt all over your clothes,” Seokmin blurts out, before he can stop himself.

“Indeed.” Minghao smirks slowly. “That’s what washing machines are for.” 

“Right,” Seokmin says. “Right, of course, you’re right.”

Minghao giggles. Seokmin is struck dumb. It’s not so much the sound as it is the sight. Minghao is unfairly cute. He grumbles to himself (he really needs to get his shit together), flattening his lips into a thin line as he starts to determinedly dig around the roots of the bush, ridding itself of the weeds.

“What have you gotten done so far?” Minghao asks, curious. His gaze swivels around, taking the time to peruse his surroundings and survey the changes. “I can’t put my finger on it, but it really does look so much better than before.”

Seokmin is glad for the distraction. “I haven’t really done much. She just needed a little bit of sprucing up.” He waggles his fingers. “A magic touch, if you will.”

Minghao narrows his eyes in mock outrage. “That’s cheating.”

“It is _not_.”

“It is so?!”

“Not my fault I was blessed with it,” Seokmin does not deny or affirm the accusation, but the smile threatening to split his face open probably speaks volumes. Minghao shakes his head at him, but he’s grinning too. 

“In all seriousness, though,” Seokmin says, “I cleared parts of the foliage that was blocking the path that you made, and just started to weed out these pesky little guys.” He gestures to the growing haphazard pile of roots. “I think I want to start planting more flowers in this section, because if you look at where the sages are, you’ll feel that this part seems lacking in comparison? It feels a bit empty, to be honest, and I think that it would look better if we made it more balanced.”

Minghao follows him silently through all of it, making humming noises of agreement when Seokmin shows him suggestions about the upkeep and the other modifications that he could make to help the plants grow. He never interrupts Seokmin, just waits patiently for the right moment to interject with questions that Seokmin is only too happy to answer, getting carried away tangent after tangent. 

(The thing about Seokmin is that he easily loses himself when someone gets him talking about his passions, because that’s just the kind of person that he is, full and bright and ready to give his all. At his core he is someone who cares deeply, in wholes rather than by halves. Life is too precious to live it any other way.)

“You can tell me when to shut up,” he squeaks, mortified, when he realizes just how long he’s gone on about the intricacies of botany and horticulture. “There’s like no way you find this stuff interesting.”

“I mean,” Seokmin continues when Minghao looks startled, mouth open, “you’re very kind for listening to me prattle on and on about the soil composition and the efficiency of the hydroponics system that you have going on here — it’s amazing, really, how you’ve engineered everything. Chan always tells me I get carried away with this kind of stuff, says that he can’t take me anywhere—”

“Seokmin,” Minghao says gently, interrupting. 

Seokmin is terrified he has babbled himself into a corner. Minghao is looking at him with kind eyes, and this is it, this is where he’s going to tell Seokmin to kindly shut up and Seokmin might as well fling himself into the depths of Tartarus now before he dies by sheer mortification, he can _feel_ it really, squeezes his eyes in anticipation of the killer blow —

“You like this stuff, right?” 

Seokmin blinks, confused. “Huh?”

“This stuff,” Minghao gestures to the sage in front of him, the garden growing steadily all around them. “You like it, right?”

“Yes?” Seokmin is pretty sure the sounds coming out of his mouth are closer to squawks than anything else. 

“Then it’s really fine with me,” Minghao confesses. “It might be hard to believe, but even _I_ don’t like to talk about death all the time. And I’m the king of it.” 

“Plus,” Minghao says. “You get so genuinely happy when you talk about it, you _glow_ . It means a lot to you, anyone with eyes can see that. I’m happy to listen.” His eyes curve, mischievous. “Besides, I think this garden will be _to die for_ , once you’re done with.”

“Oh,” Seokmin says. His voice sounds faint in his ears, but he chalks it up as a side effect of being the center of Minghao’s attention for so long. Seokmin tries to remember if that’s one of Minghao’s mysterious powers or not. “That’s… very nice of you. Thank you.” He looks down at his feet, and picks up a trowel. Offers it to Minghao. “Would you like to help me, then?”

Minghao grins, grabbing on. “I thought you’d never ask.”

❀ ❀ ❀ 

“You are a very difficult man to get a hold of, Minghao.” Seokmin says, grinning ear to ear when he finally finds Minghao waiting for him in the dining room, on the eighth day. “I tried to make dinner reservations for the past couple days, but your secretary said you were unavailable.” 

“What can I say? I’m a very busy man. All this riveting administrative clerical work is calling my name, I simply _can’t_ resist.” Minghao laughs, motioning for him to sit down and eat. 

Seokmin obliges, moving his plate so that he sits at Minghao’s right side, instead all the way at the end of the dining table. He understands the status defined by owning a magnificent dining hall — something about the longer the table, the more sophisticated the residence, though Seokmin really does not understand the correlation — but even at home he would much rather curl up by Joshua’s side than eat at opposing ends. Seokmin has always abhorred unnecessary distance.

“I get lonely,” He says by way of explanation, when Minghao looks up from his plate in confusion at the clattering of silverware. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Minghao lets out a little cough, caught by surprise, and tamps it down with a tentative sip from his goblet before gesturing in front of him. “By all means.”

Dinner is spent in relative silence, punctured every once in a while by the scraping of forks against plates. Seokmin’s leg is bouncing a mile a minute, and the words are beginning to pile up in his head the longer he thinks them. 

“How has your—”

“I think—” 

Minghao and Seokmin both let out a startled laugh. Seokmin motions for him to go first, eyes shyly meeting Minghao’s. 

“How has your stay been?” Minghao picks up his napkin, discreetly wiping his mouth. “I apologize that I haven’t the time to check in on you lately. I’ve been incredibly busy tending to my duties, though that’s no excuse. Junhui tells me he’s been keeping you company.” 

Seokmin nods, perking up at the mention of his newfound friend, grinning. “Junhui has been great. A lovely friend.” 

“Ah, I will have to thank him later, then. He’s done me a great service.” Minghao’s smile thins when his attention turns back to his plate, eyes sliding away from Seokmin’s. “It gets a little lonely here, or so I’ve been told.” 

Seokmin is quick to dissuade Minghao from that notion. The days spent in the palace are so free of structure, especially in comparison to the dreadfully boring and seemingly endless meetings that he had been forced to attend, always by Joshua’s side. With Junhui by his side, the world seems to stretch before them, shining with possibility. 

“We haven’t explored everything yet — the palace is just so _huge_ , and Junhui has helped me from springing a couple booby traps here and there — why do you _have_ those anyways, I just don’t think those are very user-friendly, especially when you’ve got guests over. I think I’ve got at least the pathway to the kitchen from my chambers mapped out, which was of utmost priority, of course.”

He recounts the past couple days in great detail, pausing shyly when he realizes that he has been babbling for way longer than acceptable. Minghao seems content to listen, however, and signals for him to keep going; Minghao watches him with his chin resting on his hands, an amused smile on , dinner left untouched in favor of listening to what he has to say, hanging onto every single word. Seokmin blushes, stumbles over some of his words, simultaneously taking delight in and feeling delirious beneath the full force of Minghao’s raw undivided attention. It feels like his stomach might drop out from under him at a moment’s notice.

“You’re a good storyteller,” Minghao says later, after Seokmin has finished. He returns to eating, though it cannot be that delicious now that it has most definitely gone room temperature by now. 

“Joshua says I spray more than I say things,” Seokmin admits. “I get excited easily.”

Minghao’s appraisal is slow. Seokmin burns with it. “I can see that.”

They are quiet once more, but for once, Seokmin does not feel the urge to fill the space as he usually would. It feels nice. There is no pressure, no forced congeniality, no need for niceties or pretenses. It is just Seokmin, and he is just Minghao. 

Minghao makes a pleased hum. “What were you going to say before?” 

“Ah, yes, that.” Seokmin straightens up in his chair, fidgeting with the napkin in his lap. He turns to Minghao. The catastrophe in his stomach is receding now, the nerves dissipating, certainty rising to the surface as he speaks. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. I believe have the answer to our— my dilemma.” 

“Oh?” Minghao leans forward, steepling his fingers. “And what would that be?”

“I was thinking that,” Seokmin takes a nervous gulp of water, “I could stay here, with you. Even after the thirty days are over. You need a consort to help you take care of the grounds while you’re away, to take care of the tiny things that don’t need your concern. I need protection from Seungcheol. We work well together, you can’t deny that. It’s not hard with you.” He wipes his sweaty palms on the material of his pants, his mouth incredibly dry. “Minghao, I can do these things for you, even if you do not love me… in that way. I can be somebody to you, for you. If you let me stay.”

He looks up. It is obviously the wrong thing to say. Minghao places his fork down, face stony. He looks like one step removed from a storm, absolutely frigid where he had been nothing but languid before.

“Why would you want that?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Seokmin is defensive now, hands curling into fists. He can feel his hackles rising to meet Minghao halfway, snarling and spitting. It is not the easiest for him to say this either, the shame of asking grating against the part of him that was raised to not raise any fuss, the part that discouraged all personal desire. He is sure his cheeks are on fire, too, hot tears rising up and threatening to escape. 

“Then _make_ me.” Minghao gestures wildly. “This seriously can’t be the first thing you thought of, Seokmin. I thought you were less naive than that.”

Seokmin looks at Minghao, pride stinging. “Is it really so bad to be down here with me?”

Minghao pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not _that_. It’s the fact that you’re so willing to sacrifice your lifestyle for a stranger that you hardly know! I don’t think you fully understand what you must give up if you’re to live down here with me. You wouldn’t be able to see the sun —“

“The one you have magicked works well enough.” A blatant lie, but if Seokmin is in for a penny, he might as well be in it for the whole pound. Minghao shoots him an exasperated look, but continues on. 

“You wouldn’t be able to see your friends. Your father. Chan. Mingyu. Everyone you love is up there. You would just be stuck down here with me.”

Seokmin juts his chin up, defiant. “Junhui makes good company. I’m sure I’d manage.”

Minghao crosses his arms. “And, pray tell, how would the prince of spring be able to rule over his domain if he isn’t there to see it?”

This is one that has Seokmin stumped. “I’m sure Joshua wouldn’t mind it. My duties are nearly the same as his, anyways.”

Minghao looks unconvinced. 

“With Seungcheol, I’m nothing more than a pretty face. I won’t be anything more than just another body.” Seokmin is insistent. “At least with you, I have a chance. I can make those sacrifices. You’re different. You’re nice. You treat me differently. Like an equal.” Seokmin’s voice grows quiet. “I’ve never been someone’s equal before. 

“You can’t just _say_ things like that!” 

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“But _what_?” 

Seokmin stops where he’s standing, chest heaving, realizing their close proximity. Minghao seems to realize it at the same time he does.

He isn’t quite sure who moves first. All he knows is that his lips end up on Minghao’s, his fingers making their way into the other’s hair. Seokmin expects teeth, but he gets the soft gentle heat of Minghao’s mouth instead, warm and coaxing. Minghao’s hands end up twisting themselves tightly in the front of Seokmin’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric.

He is sure of who stops first, though.

“Seokmin, no, we can’t.” Minghao pulls away, lips plump and hair thoroughly mussed up. Regret is heavy in his tone, but the way that his hands move to gently cradle Seokmin’s cheek has Seokmin feel all sorts of conflicting emotions. Mostly anger, hints of shame.

His eyes flash. Seokmin rephrases his question prior and throws it back in Minghao’s face like a dagger, twisting the hilt deep. He wants it to hurt, the humiliation of being kissed and discarded within the same split second, burning his throat with the shame of it.

“Is it really so bad to be down here, with you?” _Is it really so bad to be with me?_

All the color drains from Minghao’s face, and he jerks his hand back before Seokmin can miss the warmth of it.

“It is,” he says simply, and nothing more. Before Seokmin can do anything else, before he can reach out and stop him, Minghao pushes his chair back and is gone. 

He doesn’t leave anything behind. Not even a whisper of smoke. 

Seokmin closes his eyes and slumps into his chair, leans his head forward until he feels the cool marble against his cheek. 

❀ ❀ ❀

Seokmin finds himself in an even worse pickle after that. If he thought Minghao barely had any time for him before, it’s almost as if the god of death is doing everything he can to actively avoid him. An emergency meeting to discuss what to do with a mutiny of shades. Infrastructure plans with ministers, other obligatory roles that Junhui says “require Minghao’s presence” but the excuses are always poorly crafted and thinly veiled. Seokmin does not really pay attention. He always catches himself looking for Minghao, anyhow, hoping for glimpses of him at dinner, only to be disappointed when he doesn’t show. Seokmin constantly thinks about the way Minghao’s lips felt on his. He had kissed back. Seokmin was sure of it, surer than he has been of anything in his life. _Minghao had kissed him back._

He figures it’s pathetic, how he has managed to commit five seconds of feeling to memory, but he continues to replay it over and over again anyways. 

Most of his time is split between wandering the castle and taking care of the garden, Junhui his only companion. Under Seokmin’s care, the garden is growing slowly. It is hard, but mindlessly working the earth brings Seokmin a relief from the worries present in the eddies of his mind (spoiler: they all have to do with Minghao). He gets to feel the soil beneath his palms, coax the flowers to bloom, triumphs in every single bud that sprouts from the tough terrain. He also mourns for every life lost, taking the time to say little prayers for them as he removes their lifeless stalks and vows to do better for them in the meantime. Seokmin plants seeds like he does his worries. He can’t help it, he has always been someone who likes to slip a little piece of himself in everything that he does. It’s more authentic, anyway.

Chan shows up one day, out of the blue. Minghao looks positively peeved when Seokmin opens the door, holding Chan up by the collar with a ground out, “Found him running around the palace grounds, being chased by my dog, screaming bloody murder. Believe he’s yours.” He affixes Chan with another dirty look and shoves him forward in Seokmin’s bedchambers, promptly spinning around on his heels and walking down the corridor with no other words of acknowledgement. 

Seokmin watches him go before he closes the door. They’re still not on speaking terms, but something in he hopes anyways, fluttering against the cavern of his chest. Minghao does not turn around, and Seokmin pretends not to be disappointed.

“That thing’s _barely_ a dog as it is. I honestly didn’t expect it to have three heads.” Chan grumbles, looking downright murderous as he attempts to straighten up his collar, “I had it covered.”

“Sure you did,” Seokmin snorts as he leans in to fix what Chan’s hands cannot. 

“I _did_ so!” Chan says indignantly. There is a new slash running ragged in his eyebrow (“Run-in with a nasty harpy. I liked the way it looked, so I’m keeping it for now.”), but for the most part, little else has changed about him. Seokmin does not know quite what to expect, honestly. It is not like he expected the world aboveground to stop and await his return, but his pride stings a little bit at the ease with which it has carried on. 

“So what’s the deal?” Chan says, flopping down onto the bed. 

“What deal?” Seokmin crosses his arms. “Why does there have to be one? There is no deal. Everything is fine.”

“Everything is definitely _not_ fine,” Chan argues. “If it was, I would be at your house instead of down here in the Underworld. If everything was fine, Joshua would not have created frostbite and fucked this season’s harvest over to high hell and back. It’s _July._ ” He shoots Seokmin an incredulous look, as if everything is his fault — which, well, given the circumstances, Seokmin can be led to believe that it sort of is. 

“ _Really_?” Seokmin cannot keep the surprise from slipping out, coloring his tone. 

“Can’t you _try_ to act more ashamed?” Chan says irritably, leaning up to flick Seokmin in the forehead. “At least pretend, for my sake. Seungcheol has got me running around the world, sending me on every little errand that he can think of.” He huffs, flopping back onto the bed and immediately grabs a pillow, petulant. “I’ve never worked this hard in my life.”

“Imagine that,” Seokmin says dryly, rubbing at the stinging spot - _gods_ , that’ll leave a mark - “a god actually doing his job? Unheard of. I guess miracles _do_ really happen.”

“Ass.” The sarcasm is not lost on Chan, who narrows his gaze and lets out a loud _harrumph!_ Seokmin laughs because it makes Chan’s bangs tuft up; he looks every bit a petulant five year old boy instead of the five millenia old god he actually is. 

Seokmin lets out a pained yelp when Chan gets up to properly shove him over. “Gods, you’re _so_ annoying,” Chan groans. “I can’t believe people think you’re the nice one.”

“Hey!” Seokmin rubs his ankle, having caught it on the edge of the bed frame. “I _am_ the nice one!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Seokmin-ah.” Chan claps his hands together in prayer, voice dramatic and hushed, eyes nearly going cross-eyed as he looks down. “ _I_ know the truth. The real truth.”

“Shut up,” Seokmin says, but he never means it. Not with Chan. 

They trade stories back and forth, updating one another. Chan gives him a briefing of the gossip that has risen in the wake of Seokmin’s act of defiance (“I made it sound a lot cooler than you actually were, you’re welcome”) and lets him know how Joshua’s doing (“He’s taking up stress-knitting, for some reason. Says it calms him down, or whatever, but personally, I don’t get it. If anything, those projects cause him even more stress. Masochist.”). 

Seokmin tells him about the garden, about Junhui. He is a little hesitant about revealing the kiss with Minghao, partly because it feels like a fragile memory — as if he were to talk it out loud the entire thing might blow away, unravelling right there in his hands — but Chan worms it out of him eventually. The bastard has an uncanny way of sniffing out gossip, a bloodhound on a scent trail.

It doesn’t seem that Seungcheol is too torn up about the blow to his ego, which is a relief. He’d gone straight back to skirt and pants chasing the moment he’d returned, confident that in thirty days he’d have Seokmin back and in his arms again. 

“In all seriousness, though,” Chan straightens up and criss crosses his legs on the bed, “are you alright? How is this whole ‘prisoner of the Underworld thing’?”

“This is fun,” Seokmin purposely deflects. He gets on the comforter too, mirroring Chan’s position. “Are we going to tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets, now?”

“Ach, just answer the question, would you? I’ve never pulled teeth before, but I really think that this could be the closest thing to it. Getting you to answer questions is always a pain in the ass.” Chan shoots Seokmin a dirty look, equal parts disgusted and fond, comfort cultivated by years and years of knowing each other. “You never say what you truly mean.”

“You don’t have to be so direct about it,” Seokmin says petulantly. “You know, it’s really scary how easily you read me.”

“It’s one of my winning qualities.” Chan shrugs, examining his fingernails. “Well?”

“Minghao has been nothing but kind to me,” Seokmin starts. That much is true. 

Chan rolls his eyes. “The _juicy_ parts, please.”

“I’m getting there. Geez, you’ve gotten so pushy.”

“I’m waiting~”

“Alright, alright fine.” Seokmin takes a deep breath and begins to talk. Chan has always been a fantastic listener. Seokmin tells him about his conflicting emotions, how initially Minghao had been nothing more than a mirage in the desert, a desperate oasis for refuge from Seungcheol’s advances, but now Seokmin realizes the cruelty of it all. Minghao is no longer mysterious, a puppet to be used for his own plans, but a face that Seokmin recognizes, someone who is funny and witty and very, very likeable. Maybe Minghao could grow to like him too, but their most recent argument still hangs over the both of them, heavy in the air. 

“You like him, then?” Chan asks, when Seokmin finishes. It isn’t to be cruel. The god of travelers has always been a second home to Seokmin, his closest confidante, the closest thing Seokmin has ever had to a friend. When you are a god, those are far and few in between. 

“I do.” The admission is thrilling as it is terrifying. “I like him a lot more than I thought I would have.”

“Well,” Chan says, giving Seokmin a soft peck on the cheek as he gets up to leave. “I hope he changes his mind. I’d tap you, if that’s any consolation. You’re very handsome.”

“Gross.” Seokmin grins at Chan, fond. A terrible wave of homesickness hits him just then. “I think I get what you mean, though.” 

“Good.” Chan throws a hand up in farewell. “And if you need someone to beat his ass, I would be more than willing to. I owe him one, for his literal devil of a dog.”

“You sure you can handle it?” Seokmin yells at his retreating back, the words echoing in the hall. 

The only response he gets in return is a raised middle finger, high in the air. 

❀ ❀ ❀

  
  


Seokmin spends the next week trying very hard not to cry. Minghao seems to be dead set on ignoring him. Even when Seokmin catches glimpses of him amongst the palace corridors, Minghao acts as if his heels have caught on fire and he all but sprints in the opposite direction, leaving Seokmin all alone. It is the thing that Seokmin fears the most, this crushing weight of being abandoned and thrown aside, discarded after a one time use. Of course, Minghao was never really _his_ to begin with, but Seokmin feels the loss keenly, all the same.

All Seokmin's days are spent alone, and all his dinners are spent alone. Even his nights are spent alone. Those are the hardest. Seokmin lays spread-eagled on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, wide-awake, his chest hurting more than he can bear. Junhui keeps him company when he can, but there is only so much that he can provide when Minghao is the one that Seokmin really wants.

Every second that Seokmin has free, he spends tending to the garden with obsessive abandon, to the brink of exhaustion. He's nearly done with its makeover, working endlessly to make sure that it turns out stunning. His project has turned the garden into a jungle of green - vibrant colors pour out from each and every crevice, and the sweet sticky smell of flowers and pollen mixing into the air. As always, the pomegranate tree stands alone on the hill, the gorgeous centerpiece that ties all the hues together, looking down at all the others from her regal perch.

In the midst of everything else going on, the garden provides him stability, something to dig his hands into, something to mold and craft as he likes. It is something that he can hold onto.

(The only thing left to do now, really, is to show it to Minghao, but they aren't quite on speaking terms, right now.)

"Seokmin, are you alright?"Junhui frowns, poking at his cheek. Seokmin grumbles, rubbing his eye, frowning when some dirt ends up in his mouth. He must've fallen asleep in the garden again.

"Yeah," Seokmin takes a while to stretch, yawning. "I just lost track of time."

"I'm worried about you," Junhui says. "The cooks say you're not eating much anymore."

"I'm fine!" Seokmin says brightly, wincing internally at how forced it sounds, almost feverish with delirium.

Junhui shoots him a dubious look. "Liar."

Seokmin sighs, too tired to argue with him otherwise. “I know.”

“Take care of yourself, will you?” Junhui frowns, but never pushes beyond that. Just mumbles something angrily to himself before he continues on talking, some fanciful mortal gossip that he’d heard from the naiad this morning. Seokmin is thankful for his attempt at normalcy, and desperately tries to blink away his gratefulness before the other boy can see.

The next time Seokmin wakes up, he finds a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a mug of sweet warm tea, Junhui’s laugh still echoing in the breeze, the feeling of a warm hug still fresh in his dreams.

❀ ❀ ❀

Junhui materializes from thin air. “You should fix things with Seokmin, you know. He’s been miserable all week.” The _it’s all your fault_ is implicit, and Minghao knows it, can feel the pointed barbs pointing at him in the sentence.

“I regret showing you that trick,” Minghao groans, face still buried in his hands. “All you’ve managed to do with it is scare me half to death in the comfort of my own home.”

“Don’t dance around the subject, Hao.” Junhui is gentle but firm. Minghao has always appreciated that about him. “He really, really likes you.”

“No one has ever liked me enough to stay.” Minghao’s voice comes out a lot more broken than he would have liked to admit. 

Junhui runs his fingers through Minghao’s hair softly, fixing his bangs, taking the time to drape a blanket over his shoulders before giving Minghao a gentle across the forehead. “I think this one is different. You should give him a chance.” 

Minghao stays stubbornly silent.

Junhui sighs. “Give yourself a chance, won’t you?” He leaves Minghao at that.)

❀ ❀ ❀

Minghao’s apologies litter the castle grounds. There are trinkets everywhere he looks — by his bedside when he wakes up, sitting innocently on the dresser, draped lazily around his bedpost. Seokmin takes one look at them and huffs, arms crossing.

“I don’t want any of these things. I just want him to talk to me,” Seokmin complains, frustrated beyond belief. “He doesn’t say a single word to me for a week, and now he’s just expecting me to be bought over by some cheap trinkets?”

Junhui winces sympathetically, pouring Seokmin tea. Seokmin has found that he prefers the soothing warmth of chamomile when he feels agitated. He has had 5 pots of it in the past 2 days, accompanied by the incessant need to make constant trips to the bathroom.

“Minghao isn’t much of a talker.”

Seokmin holds the mug in between his hands, voice small. “I figured.”

Junhui frowns. "Minghao's also a coward when it counts. He _said_ he was going to work on it, but old habits die hard, I guess."

"It's alright," Seokmin says, a little bit plaintive. He feels a little delirious, having dedicated a large chunk of the morning to crying into his tea. His nose is a little bit snotty still, actually, now that he realizes it. Seokmin's always been an easy crier - it doesn't take much to do him in, but it still takes him by surprise every time the tears rise to the surface, emotions bubbling over in excess and spilling over the top. He takes the proffered tissue that Junhui gives him, blows heavily into it.

"This really isn't cute," Junhui leans back, brows furrowed. "I am very prepared to hate Minghao for what he's doing to you right now. Just say the word Seokmin, I'll do it. I hold a mean grudge."

Seokmin lets out a pitiful laugh, a snort that bubbles out through his nose and ends up sounding a little more wet that he would like. "Remember when you said the same thing when we first met?"

"Yeah," Junhui says, fond. "Now look at us, bonding over emotionally constipated men, with your snot-filled tissues, all puffy eyed and red nosed. Personally, I feel like _I've_ never looked better, but I think you've seen better days." He clucks sympathetically, crossing his arms

Seokmin rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Junhui. I appreciate your honesty."

"No problem!" Junhui grins cheerfully. "What kind of friend would I be if I wasn't? You look terrible."

"Now that's just mean," A third voice enters the conversation. Seokmin's heart leaps in his chest as he scrambles out of his chair, taking a quick moment to wipe his nose once more. He hopes he looks better than he feels.

"Kicking him when he's down like that." Minghao is addressing Junhui, Seokmin knows, but his gaze never leaves Seokmin's.

“Whose fault is that?" Junhui asks, hands on his hips, but Minghao's glare is quickly directed his way, and he immediately wilts under the full force of it. "Alright, alright, I hear you... that's my cue to leave,” Junhui grumbles to no one in particular, getting up out of his chair and scooting out of the room.

Neither of them pay him much attention, too transfixed by the sight of each other, the first Seokmin has seen of Minghao in days. Maybe it’s because they haven’t seen each other that Seokmin is so starved for the sight of him. He looks even more devastatingly handsome than he remembers. (He's being dramatic. It's been less than a week.)

"Have you been crying?" Minghao's gaze is so inexplicably tender right now, eyes dark brown and too warm. Seokmin doesn't think he can take the full force of it for long; it has a magnetizing pull that beckons Seokmin closer, encourages him to fall right in. It takes Seokmin a long time to remember that he is supposed to mad right now.

"Yes," Seokmin sniffs, parroting Junhui's words from earlier. "Whose fault is that?"

Minghao bows his head slightly. "I think that would be me, wouldn't it?"

"No," Seokmin mutters mutinously. "The _other_ devastatingly handsome king of the underworld."

"Ah," Minghao lets out a small dry chuckle at that, in spite of himself. "That would be my twin brother. I'll be sure to tell him off for you."

Seokmin frowns, gets close enough to poke Minghao in the chest. Several times. Very forcefully. He lets out a heavy exhale. "You know I mean you, right?"

"I know," Minghao says, softly. "I'm sorry."

"You'd better be," Seokmin say pitifully, gesturing to the empty tissue boxes strewn around the room. "I went through two of those because of you."

"Only two?" Minghao lifts an eyebrow. "I thought I was three tissue-box material, at the very least."

"You're the _worst_."

"That's me. C'mere." Minghao opens his arms, and Seokmin runs into them. He marvels at how well he fits. "I'm sorry, Seokmin. I really am stupid sometimes."

"More than half," Seokmin says, muffled, into the crook of Minghao's neck. "At the very least. I keep tally. Me and Junhui both, it's fun game we like to play when we're making fun of you."

Minghao pinches his side softly, but there is no bite in it. "Mean."

"Not if you deserve it," Seokmin says. Minghao hums his assent. The sound rumbles through Minghao's chest, and Seokmin feels it deep in his body, too, from all the way up by his head to the tips of his toes.

"That's true."

Minghao pulls back to rest his forehead against Seokmin’s.

“I like you so much.” Minghao whispers it like he’s committed some terrible crime. “I’m terrified.”

“Don’t be, silly,” Seokmin says softly, hand reaching up, thumb hovering hesitantly over Minghao’s cheek. “I’m just me.”

“That’s the terrifying part,” Minghao admits. "You're the most magnificent person I've ever known."

Seokmin turns away, embarrassed, but Minghao places two steady hands on his shoulders and forces him to look back up.

"I mean it," Minghao says seriously, eyes searing. Seokmin sees love staring back at him, but this time he knows his boundaries, knows that he won't make the mistake of overstepping them again. If this is what he truly wants, then Minghao will have to come to him, unprovoked.

"Okay," Seokmin breathes. "Okay. So. Where does that leave us?"

Minghao hesitates. "I... I thought about what you said the last time."

"And?"

"And," Minghao swallows nervously, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, "I think the thought of us scares me together because you are so unbelievably bright, Seokmin. You deserve to have a crown on your head and worshipped and displayed across the heavens for everyone to see. I want people to know you as I know you, brilliant and kind and lovely. You belong up there, in the sky, surrounding by people who love you and whom you love in return. Not down here."

Seokmin opens his mouth to interject, but the stern look that he gets from Minghao gives him pause.

"Let me finish," Minghao laughs fondly. "But for some reason - the gods know why - you picked me. Me! Someone who cannot give you half that things you deserve, who couldn't fathom why you would waste all that on me, who would trap you down here under the earth instead of letting rise above it. I couldn't do that to you, I thought. So pushing you away was the best option."

"Now, I'm not saying that was smart on my behalf." Minghao's eyes are glittering with tears now, too, voice shaking with an emotion Seokmin recognizes but is too hesitant to name. "And I will be apologizing for that for the rest of my life—"

"Just say forever," Seokmin hiccups. "It has a nicer ring to it."

"Forever," Minghao corrects himself. "But now I know better."

"Thanks to Junhui." Seokmin reminds him.

"Do we really have to bring him up here, now?" Minghao is exasperated, but there's a smile playing around the edges of his mouth, now. Seokmin fights the urge to kiss them away.

"Give credit where credit is due," Seokmin says impishly. "It is only good and proper."

Minghao rolls his eyes, but his voice is nothing but sincere. "Thank you, Junhui."

Seokmin smiles encouragingly, watching as Minghao readjusts his tie nervously and tries not to trip over his tongue. "Where was I? Ah. Yes, so now that I know better... I think I'm done running away. From you. From us. What we could be." He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Seokmin nods, cheeks hurting, too happy beyond words to say anything else. He knows where this is going (he hopes), but he still is waiting for the final words to cement it home.

"What I want is for there to be an us. If you want to, that is. You can say no, the gods know that I deserve it." Minghao finishes, a little lamely, fingers fidgeting with the rings that adorn them. Seokmin's heart swells.

"I want it," Seokmin says, a little bit desperately, a little too fast. "I want it so very much, Minghao."

“I cannot promise you anything.” Minghao says seriously. “You deserve a lot better than me."

"But I don't want better." Seokmin shakes his head. "I just want you."

Minghao kisses him softly. "Stupid. _I_ want better for you. But, yes, I want to try this, with you. Please. If you'll let me."

It is a start, a renewal. Seokmin is good at those, too.

❀ ❀ ❀

Minghao loves like a night-blooming cereus, slow, unfurling, then all at once. The bloom is as lovely as it is violent and short-lived. 

Seokmin loves like a perennial, firm and unwavering. It withstands the onslaught of time, always present, a steady reminder. 

They make it work, learning the ins and outs of one another. 

At first, it’s hard. Seokmin pushes more than he pulls, clumsy with it; Minghao is harsh and unyielding sometimes. They stumble into one another more than once, awkward and rigid, stepping on each other’s toes. The fights they have are terrible. Seokmin gets better at using Minghao’s words against him, and Minghao gets scarily good at deflecting them, throwing back daggers where they hurt most. Sometimes the wounds get a little too bloody before they come back together, the guilt overwhelming in their apologies to one another. They always end up curled in each other’s arms, in the end. The castle shakes with all the emotion it holds inside it. 

Growing pains, Seokmin has to remind himself often, when he finds himself fraying at the end of his rope (read: when Minghao is being particularly trying). Rome wasn’t built in a day. And neither will they.

The sentiment is there, but the execution is another story. Sometimes it’s sloppy and fast-paced, other times meticulous and tender. Most of the time it is incredibly messy beyond belief. 

All in all, Seokmin thinks it is perfect.

❀ ❀ ❀

The time they have together grows increasingly and increasingly shorter, and Seokmin has attached himself to Minghao’s side like a limpet, refusing to let him go. For all that Minghao complains about the lack of space, his eyes go terribly fond whenever Seokmin pops up, eyes bright and smile the best substitute for the sun. Seokmin calls Minghao a liar and Minghao spends a good thirty minutes chasing him around the castle, determined to restore his honor and make Seokmin pay for such defamation. Seokmin shrieks with glee when he finally gets caught.

They’re sitting down now on the fur rugs in front of the fire, slightly out of breath, Seokmin’s body bracketed on both sides by Minghao’s legs. Seokmin traces the inside of Minghao’s ink-dipped skin, fingers skimming along the waves as he leans his head back against Minghao’s chest. 

(Seokmin was surprised, at first, by the oceans and skies needled on his arms, both symbols of his brothers’ kingdoms. But he sees the skulls in there too, sees the intricate red string connecting all three objects, understands the loyalty despite it all. Sometimes you cannot choose who you belong to.) 

“Have you ever loved somebody before?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

Minghao’s voice is wry, rife with the kind of pain that comes from wounds only half healed. “Well, you don’t see them around, do you now?”

Seokmin interlaces his fingers with Minghao’s, kisses his knuckles fiercely, with intent. “They didn’t love you the way I do, then.” 

The reply that comes is slow and careful and fond, heavy with it. 

“I do not think anyone can love like you do, Seokmin.”

“Good,” Seokmin says. “Then I’ve made myself irreplaceable to you. You can’t forget me, then, after this is all over.” His voice turns a little wobbly, at the ends, trembling. “That would just be incredibly mean.”

They haven’t talked about the seven days that are left until Seungcheol’s return, scared to disturb the peace that they have. It hangs over them, looming, always a distant reminder. All Seokmin has to do is reach in to touch, and the debilitating worry comes back in full force.

His father’s voice comes back to Seokmin, pleasant and lovely. Always lovely. Joshua has never had a reason to fear, for his fame was always abundant. A god of plentiful harvests, he drowns in praise, laps up the excess love mortals dote on him. He does not spend the rest of the time living in fear for the upcoming seasons. It was only ever Seokmin who had to fear being forgotten.

(“ _What god receives no love, no worship? What good do you serve if no one prays to you? If no one loves you enough to keep the thought of you alive? If no one knows you are here, that you exist?_ ”)

Minghao leans down to kiss him fiercely. 

“What was that for?” Seokmin asks, in a daze. 

“Just cause. You think too loud, you know.” Minghao puts his chin on top of Seokmin head. He can feel Minghao’s breath tickling his hair.

Seokmin finds Minghao’s fingers. It is as natural as breathing. _Thank you._

Minghao cups his cheek. “I know.” _I love you._

❀ ❀ ❀

It comes out, unbidden, one day, when they are in the guest chamber, sated after a night not spent sleeping, bodies slick with sweat. Maybe it is the ritual that has Seokmin loose-lipped and uncareful, saying whatever comes to mind first, the intimacy of the dark giving him cover and the necessary courage. Whatever forces may be at play, it gives him the bravery to say it. The moment it slips out, Seokmin realizes it is something he burns to know the answer to.

“Would you marry me?”

Minghao stops running his hands through Seokmin’s hair. He looks hesitant. 

Seokmin sees where this is going. A pit opens up in his stomach and threatens to swallow him whole. “Minghao?”

Minghao lets it out on a soft exhale, “I do not think I can wed you.”

Seokmin’s eyes flash.

“Are you running away, then?” What he really means is this: _Do you not love_ _me? Did these past thirty days mean nothing to you?_

But he does not say it.

Even gods have their breaking point, and this question is a shame too great for Seokmin to bear. Of course, a god is loved. It is their birthright, being from the stars: they are destined for greatness. There is no other path for them. It is in their blood, shimmering with an intensity that burns bright on the borderline of madness. Gods are hungry for this birthright of theirs, downright starving for this recognition and awe and adoration. The divine should always strike fear and reverence into the hearts that they touch, and over the eons those feelings have morphed into something akin to love, or something close enough.

Adoration is to a god the way water is to a human. Any shape or form will do.

The love that Seokmin yearns for is not the one that masquerades in place of thinly veiled fear. He does not want it if it is ripped from the chest, torn from its home, made a gaudy display for show.

There is a gentle apology in Minghao’s gaze. Minghao, who almost always knows what Seokmin means to say before he even says it, who is looking at Seokmin with the saddest brown eyes and aching heart. Minghao, who still looks lovely to Seokmin, even in this moment. There is a cupping of a cheek, the faint brush of a thumb against skin.

Minghao’s voice is barely above a whisper: “We are merely gods. Love is something mortals do. It's not for us to have, to keep, to own.”

Seokmin clenches his teeth but holds his tongue.

Minghao offers him a smile then, a little watery, eyes too dark with emotion that Seokmin cannot name.

“I am sincerely sorry. I don't think we should do this anymore, Seokmin.” He dips his head slightly, once, and then is gone before Seokmin can say anything else. 

(What Minghao does not say is this: _to marry me is to put yourself in chains. Run while you can and set yourself free. You deserve a much better fate than me_.)

Seokmin clenches his fists at Minghao’s retreating back. He thinks he understands, but what he wishes to tell Minghao is this: _You do not get to make my choices for me._

To love a boy like Minghao, you must love the god in him as well. You must love the death that surrounds him, hangs heavy off his shoulders like a shroud; must learn to love him and _stay_ , in spite of all the signs that tell you to exit; must love the loneliness that threatens to swallow him whole, equal parts self-inflicted and part of the burden he was made to bear thousands of eons ago. 

And Seokmin does. If it belongs to Minghao, he will. 

Minghao, who makes loving him a battle, who fights with each and every step because he is terrified of getting wounded. Minghao, who is not afraid of the shackles around his feet but the way it signifies a prison sentence, the cold metal harsh and suffocating for those who want to share the burden. Seokmin has never cared, as long as they would be together through it all.

He makes this thundering promise with silent tears: for as long as it takes, he will wait. 

After all, Seokmin has so much time he could drown in it. 

❀ ❀ ❀

The day that Seungcheol comes for him is unmomentous. Minghao opens the gates and watches him go without a fight. He doesn’t even have the strength to be there to see it through the end; when Seokmin turns around for one last look, only Junhui is left, waving frantically. He tries not to be too disappointed.

“I hope he didn’t do anything too terrible to you down there,” Seungcheol takes a moment to fuss over Seokmin, throwing an arm around his shoulders in an act of ownership. The weight of it feels an awful lot heavier than Seokmin can bear. “I think I’ve found it in me to forgive you, for what you did. Someone told me it was… what do the mortals call it… Swedish syndrome?

“Stockholm syndrome.” Seokmin corrects monotonously, lets himself be guided by the king of the gods, tries not to think too hard about the other one he is leaving behind. He is too tired to care. 

“Thank you, your majesty, for your kindness.” 

“It’s Seungcheol, Seokmin-ah.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies, Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol frowns, peering down at him. “Ach, what did Minghao do to you?” Seokmin pretends not to hear him.

Seokmin’s return has Joshua over the moon with joy. In a show of good spirits, he immediately revitalizes all the crops he had laid to rest the month before in an unprecedented, magical super bloom overnight. The mortals call it a miracle. A prince’s return. Seokmin is just miserable. 

Joshua tries to get him to talk, but all Seokmin offers is just a small plaintive smile. “It’s nothing,” he says, and watches the seasons go by. Seungcheol checks in on him from time to time, but now the concern is genuine; Seokmin does as he is told, but it feels off — there is no spark, no vibrance, no joy. There is nothing else, no substance to latch onto. 

He is a shell of a star, a ghost of what he once was. Thinks about a boy with dark eyes and a wild heart, wonders if it will ever be in the cards for a king who belongs beneath the earth to love him, Seokmin, who belongs to the world above it. Fate is a tricky thing. Sometimes you never really get it right.

He wonders if Minghao has ever returned to the garden. Would he be able to see all the care Seokmin has poured into it? It shines the brightest in there, nestled amongst the lush greenery, in every leaf, every bloom, tucked into the corners, the trees whispering with it. Everything in there is a careful reflection of Seokmin, who never does anything by halves. Only wholes. 

Even before Seokmin told Minghao he loved him, the plants knew. 

Seokmin waits, because that is all there is left to do. 

❀ ❀ ❀

Seokmin is busy picking out flowers in a field when they start to die. 

He feels rather than hears the earth split open, watches the way death blooms, violently leaching into the grass, sees it kill the vibrant colors — reds, greens, yellows, purples — as it makes its way through the field. The field lets out a big shudder, as if taking one last final breath. Seokmin is holding onto his for the both of them. 

“There are easier ways you could have done this, you know,” Seokmin says quietly. His stomach is in his throat, his heart is fluttering madly in his chest. He hopes, _god_ how he hopes. “You could have said yes, the first time around. You could have stopped me from leaving. You even could have gotten Chan to deliver me a message.”

“It took me a while to realize what I’d lost.” The admission is slow and measured, painful to admit. “I figured I’d go all out on this one. You deserve it.” There is an audible pause then. Even softer, still: “You deserve a lot of things.”

Seokmin is pretty sure he’s crying at this point. 

“Asshole.”

“Yeah,” Minghao steps out from the earth. “That’s me.”

Seokmin stares at him. A god made of smoke and mirrors and wisps and flames too bright to ever be caught, a man who was so convinced that loving him was to put yourself in chains — the boy he loves wrapped up in all of it, somewhere. 

Ghosts seem so much more tangible when they look right back at you in broad daylight. 

“I believe this is yours.”

Seokmin stares at the crown in Minghao’s hands. In the center, five glimmering pomegranate seeds. 

“Five seeds for five months spent with me every year. Six, if you count the one that got us into this mess in the first place. I won’t ask for any more than that, not from you.” Minghao’s voice is unbearably fond, as is his gaze when Seokmin dares to look up into it. 

“I asked Seungcheol and Joshua for your hand properly, too, if that has any weight on your decision. Kneeled down and everything.”

It is not so much a proposal as it is a compromise, bloodied and raw and fought for. This is Minghao offering him his heart, the throne by his side, the hard glittering crown atop his head. Matching rings, maybe, but Seokmin is not really sure that is a custom that gods partake in, or if it is merely a mortal propriety. 

Whatever it is, Seokmin wants it, wants everything that Minghao has to offer, all that Minghao is.

“I would have paid to see Seungcheol’s face when you got down on one knee.” Seokmin gingerly takes the crown and places it on his head. He doesn’t miss the way Minghao’s eyes grow dark at the sight, nearly feral at the sight of his crown nestled on top of Seokmin’s hair. Staking claim. 

“He’s planning to hold it over my head for as long as I live,” Minghao whines petulantly. “But it was definitely worth it.” He pauses. Hopeful. “So. Is that a yes?”

Seokmin laughs, a little watery, a lot bit joyful. 

He picks up the seeds in his hands and swallows them whole as his answer. 

_Yes_ , Seokmin says in his head, equal bits giddy and apprehensive. _A thousand times yes._

He bows deep in front of Minghao, who looks at Seokmin with warm eyes and a shaking in his soul, as if their roles should be reversed, as if _he_ is the one who should be in Seokmin’s place instead, kneeling to him. 

Minghao gently corrects Seokmin, tilting his chin up to kiss him softly, soundly, reverently: “My love.”

The words have never been sweeter. 

**[** _This is Seokmin’s homecoming. It is a love song; a magnificent concerto in parts, deconstructed step by step, carefully fine tuned by time. He slips the coat on one arm at a time, gentle not to tear the worn sleeves, carefully notes the patches left by previous owners and wears the burden. It weighs heavy on his shoulders but it does not feel strange. He does not think his chest has ever been lighter. He does not think he has ever been happier._ **]**

**Author's Note:**

> [i’ll be sure to edit this when reveals are out, but for the time being, i would just like to say thank you.]
> 
> i hope you are all staying safe where you are. i love you!!


End file.
